Title: Alright On My Own
Pairing: Alex Cabot/Olivia Benson
Rating: K+/T
Author's Note: As you all know, these characters aren't mine. They belong to Dick Wolf and NBC.
Author's Note 2: Here it is: the story I've been talking about for a month now. I hope you enjoy it. Also, I do not recommend listening to Taylor Swift's "Ronan" while reading this story.
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Chapter: 1
August 16, 2000
A dozen bouquets of white lilies cover the ground in front of the apartment door. Alex Cabot carelessly pushes them aside with her foot and reaches into her purse to find her key. She fumbles with the key momentarily as tears cloud her vision, but finally succeeds in unlocking the door and entering her apartment.
Leaning back against the door, she slips off her heels and drops her purse on the ground. The tears come again, but she does not try to stop them. Instead, she walks clumsily through the kitchen and picks a half-full bottle up off the counter. She pours some of the clear liquid into a shot glass and downs it quickly.
Due to an incident caused by the drink at a Christmas party in 1994, Alex Cabot no longer drinks cheap tequila. Tonight, however, is the exception to the rule. Tonight, the burn of the alcohol in her throat offers a welcome reprieve from the continuous ache that has become her normal state of being. Tonight, as she down shot after shot, she is drinking to forget, though she knows she never will.
She hears the bottle shatter against the living room wall of her small, South Dakota apartment as she slides down the wall and pulls her knees to her chest, not caring that her dress has ridden up to the tops of her thighs. She wraps her arms around her legs and holds tightly to herself, her nails digging into the skin of her legs to the extent that she nearly draws blood. She rests her head against her knees and cries gut-wrenching, heartbreaking sobs.
Hours later, the loud beep of the answering machine startles her awake and Alex sits up quickly, smacking her head on the wall behind her and effectively irritating the headache growing in her eyes.
A man's voice, deep and even, fills the room: "I know you're there, Alex. Please pick up." He pauses for a few seconds, giving Alex a chance to answer the phone. When she doesn't, he continues with tears in his voice: "I just…I need to talk to you, Alex. Please."
At the sheer desperation in his voice, Alex uses the rest of her remaining strength to get to her feet and answer the phone. "I can't deal with this right now, Trevor."
"I know, Alex. I'm sorry. I just…I should've called on Friday."
Alex closes her eyes, fighting back the stinging, bitter tears. "Why didn't you?"
"I didn't think I had the right."
Alex scoffs, happily accepting the distraction from her thoughts that would come with yelling at Trevor. "Didn't think you had the…Trevor Langan, the man who acts like the world owes him everything, didn't think he had the right?"
"I'm sorry," Trevor offers lamely.
Pain and heartbreak grip at Alex and pull her into their strong embrace. "Sorry won't bring him back," she whispers. Without another word, she hangs up the phone and fall onto the couch.
It feels like her heart is shattering in her chest. She claws at her chest, trying desperately to get inside to dull the pain. She claws until she draws blood, the collapses and sobs against the couch cushions.
After a while, the sobs begin to subside and Alex moves from her spot on the couch to the other side of the living room and begins to clean up the shattered bottle on the floor. A jagged piece of glass cuts the palm of her hand, but Alex doesn't even register it until droplets of blood hit her foot.
Sighing, she dumps the glass into the trashcan and walks down the hallway to the bathroom, leaving a trail of blood that could rival the pebble trail in Hansel and Gretel.
Bracing herself against the bathroom sink, Alex watches unflinchingly as her blood mixes with the water in the basin and swirls down the drain. Hot water drips from the faucet over the cut on the palm of her hand and she knows it should sting, but she can't distinguish any feeling other than the complete and total grief that has consumed her.
Looking up, she truly sees herself in the mirror for the first time in five days. Her blond hair hangs loose, its color dull and its shine faded. The past twenty months have left her with dark rings under her eyes and an unhealthy pallor to her skin that not even makeup can hide. Even her eyes have faded from their original vibrant blue to a tired, resigned grey.
Alex shakes her head slowly, her haggard appearance no longer having an effect on her. She strips out of her black dress, letting it pool on the ground by her feet, and turns the shower on as hot as she can take it. She steps in and lets the water beat down on her back and shoulders like the end of a whip cracking against her skin.
It is punishment. It is self-flagellation. It is a painful reminder of one of the many things she couldn't protect him from. It is everything. It is nothing.
It is just a shower.
Her movements are automatic; the bottle of yellow shampoo is in her hands before she even realizes it. The smell is so ingrained in her memory that, for a moment, she can pretend he is still there.
The soap bottle slips from her hand and clatters to the ground with a loud crash; the noise startles Alex out of her thoughts and she lets her body slide to the floor of the shower. Curled up against the cool tile wall, she sobs against her knees until the water gets cold.
After her shower, Alex searches through the laundry basket of clean clothes by the bathroom door and dresses in pajama pants and her baggy, Harvard sweatshirt. She leaves her hair down to air dry and walks out of the bathroom and down the hallway.
She stops halfway down the hallway and stares at the bedroom she had painted with chalkboard paint so many months ago. On the door is a name painted in blue paint. Alex smiles sadly as she traces the letters, her heart shattering all over again as she realizes that the room's owner won't be sleeping in the bed if she opens the door.
She pushes the door open almost reluctantly and uses the bureau to keep herself from falling as she is bombarded by memories.
…
…
August 11, 1998
The creaking of the floorboard as it gets stepped on is a dead giveaway that her three-year-old is awake and on his way to her bedroom. She smiles to herself and pretends to be asleep as her bedroom door slowly creaks open.
"Mama," Hunter says in that loud whisper only toddlers can perfect. "Mama, wake up." He walks over to her bed and climbs on to it. Sitting beside her, he places both hands on her exposed arm and shakes her lightly. "C'mon, Mama," he says worriedly.
Alex smiles widely and opens her eyes. "Morning, baby," she says. "Happy birthday." She sits up quickly as Hunter prepares to launch himself at her.
"Mama," Hunter exclaims, launching himself into Alex's lap and wrapping his arms around her neck. He presses a slobbery kiss to her cheek and flops off her lap onto his back on the bed.
Alex brushes his shaggy, brown hair off his forehead and looks down into his blue eyes, her wide smile never leaving her lips. "Hungry?"
Hunter nods excitedly and jumps off the edge of the bed. "Eggs?" he asks, bolting out of the room.
Alex climbs out of bed and follows her son as he runs into the living room. "Of course," she says. "What kind?"
"Scrambled with cheese like always, Mama," Hunter says, climbing on to the couch and pulling his blue blanket and plush dinosaur into his lap. He turns on the tv and starts to sing along to some show on Nickelodeon.
"Scrambled with cheese," Alex repeats, "like always."
…
…
Present Day
Alex squeezes her eyes shut against the onslaught of new tears and quickly backs out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.
Walking quickly back to the living room, Alex falls onto the couch as another memory consumes her.
…
…
December 26, 1998
The exam room in the Pediatric Neurology ward of Sanford Children's Hospital is painted bright white with various, colorful, cartoon characters decorating the walls.
Hunter sits sideways on Alex's lap, his right hand tangled in the short hairs at Alex's neck and his left hand playing with the fabric of his mother's shirt.
There is a knock on the door and the pediatric neurologist – Dr. Michael Fisher – enters the room. Dr. Fisher is an athletically-built man with dark hair and light eyes and a demeanor that can make the most nervous parent feel calm.
"Michael Fisher," the doctor says, holding out his hand.
"Alex Cabot," Alex responds, shaking the doctor's hand. "This is my son Hunter."
"Hi, Hunter," Dr. Fisher says, offering a peaceful smile. "I'm Dr. Fisher. How are you today?"
Instead of responding, Hunter buries his face in the crook of Alex's neck and holds tightly to her.
Alex winces slightly as Hunter's hands tangle in and pull her hair. "He's shy," Alex offers by way of explanation, gently rubbing circles on Hunter's back.
Dr. Fisher smiles again and sits in the chair across from Alex and Hunter. He flips open Hunter's patient record and skims the contents. "What brings you in with Hunter today, Ms. Cabot?"
"After discussing his symptoms with his primary care physician, we were referred to you for additional insight."
Dr. Fisher nods. "Can you describe his symptoms?"
"Double vision, difficulty chewing and swallowing food, clumsiness, weakness in his left arm, persistent headaches, vomiting, fatigue."
"How long has he been experiencing these symptoms?" Dr. Fisher asks, making some notes in Hunter's file.
Alex thinks back over the past couple months. "The extreme fatigue has been present for almost six weeks, the clumsiness and weakness for three and two weeks respectively, the headache for a week, and the vomiting, double vision, and difficulty chew and swallowing have started within the past three days."
Dr. Fisher jots a few more notes into the file. "That's a long time," he says non-judgmentally.
Despite the doctor's calm, even tone, Alex is immediately on the defensive. "I tried to get him in earlier, but this was the first open appointment."
"I understand," he says. And he does – his schedule has been full every day for the past six months, leaving him with little time for his patients and even less time with his family. Dr. Fisher looks up from Hunter's file and runs his hand through his hair. "I'd like to run some tests."
"What kind of tests?"
"An MRI, some blood-work."
Alex nods. "When?"
"Today, if that's possible."
"It is."
"Okay." Dr. Fisher closes Hunter's file and stands up. "I'll put the order in right now and you can take him down to the lab on the first floor. After that, a nurse will be by to take you to radiology."
"Okay," Alex says, standing up, Hunter still clutching to her.
Dr. Fisher smiles. "It was nice meeting you, Hunter. I'll call you with the results in a few days, Ms. Cabot. Take care."
Down in the lab, the phlebotomist takes Hunter right away. To Alex's surprise, Hunter doesn't cry nor does he whimper as his blood is drawn.
They have a half-hour wait for the MRI. As they wait, Hunter regales Alex with extraordinary tales of pirates and buried treasure, or princes and princesses in faraway lands, of genies and magic and talking houseware. Alex listens with rapt attention, completely enthralled by her three-year-old's stories.
When the tech calls Hunter's name, Alex is permitted to sit in the scan room while the test takes place. The MRI takes an hour; during this time, the loud knocking sound causes Alex's head to throb incessantly. Hunter, however, is a trooper.
Fifteen minutes after the MRI ends, Alex and Hunter are in the parking garage, walking toward the car. As Alex reaches for the door handle, her cellphone rings.
"Cabot," she says, balancing the phone between her shoulder and her ear and attempting to buckle Hunter into his car seat.
"Miss Cabot," a woman's voice says, "this is Sydney from the Pediatric Neurology Department of Sanford Children's Hospital. Have you left the hospital yet?"
Alex stops fidgeting with the buckle on Hunter's car seat. "We're in the parking garage," she says, fear creeping up her spine. "Why?"
"Would you mind coming back in?"
"Right now?"
"Yes. Dr. Fisher would like to see you in his office right away."
"Okay," Alex says, "we'll be right in." The call disconnects and Alex puts her phone back into her pocket. "We gotta go back inside, baby," she says, stepping aside so Hunter can climb out of the car. She shuts the door and locks it.
"So sleepy, Mama," Hunter mumbles, taking hold of Alex's hand. He walks for a short time, but his hold on her hand is too weak and he stumbles too often for Alex to let him walk for too long.
They are taken to Dr. Fisher's office as soon as they arrive back at the Pediatric Neurology Ward.
The office is elegantly decorated in a calm grey-blue with accents the color of antique book pages. Black-framed picture frames on his walls hold his diplomas and certificates. His desk and both guest chairs are made of polished cherry wood. The office reminds Alex of her father's.
Dr. Fisher knocks lightly on the door and enters the office, looking distressed with his hair askew and lack of comforting smile. He sets a large, yellow, paper sheaf on his desk and sits in his chair.
Alex looks over at Hunter – who is curled up in the second guest chair, fast asleep – and smiles, knowing deep in her heart that the news Dr. Fisher is about to deliver is going to change their lives forever. "How bad is it?" she asks, looking back at the doctor.
Without saying a word, Dr. Fisher slides the scans out of the paper sheaf and sticks them on the light box on the wall. He flicks a switch and illuminates the scans.
Alex shakes her head. "Wh-what am I looking at?"
"See this white spot right here?" Dr. Fisher points to a white blob near the bottom of the second scan. Alex nods. "It's called a brainstem glioma. It's a tumor."
Alex stares at the doctor for a moment, hearing nothing but the rushing of blood in her ears. "Cancer?" she asks, her voice breaking. She clears her throat. "Hunter has…he has cancer?"
Dr. Fisher shakes his head. "Not necessarily," he says. "Normally, we'd do a biopsy to determine if the cells were cancerous, but the location of this type of tumor makes that difficult. It's wrapped within the brain stem." He traces the scan again for emphasis.
"What could happen if you tried to biopsy it?"
Dr. Fisher looks back at the scans and away from Alex's eyes and says, "He could end up severely impaired, paralyzed, or…"
"Or what?"
Dr. Fisher looks away from the scans, but continues to refuse to meet Alex's eyes. "The biopsy could kill him."
…
…
Present Day
As the memory fades to black, Alex rubs her eyes furiously. She looks around the living room and sees Hunter's blue blanket and plush dinosaur sitting together at the opposite end of the couch. She pulls them to her and holds them against her face, breathing in the smell of the baby shampoo she had used to wash him up on The Worst Day.
"I miss you so much, Hunter," she says against the blanket, "every single day."
An hour later, with her mind made up, Alex places a photo album, her expanding folder of important documents, and Hunter's blue blanket and plush dinosaur into a box. She leaves the apartment and does not look back.
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