A/N: Hello, gentle readers! Bet you thought I forgot about you after all this time? NEVAH! I've just been over here, plunking away at this fic for the past 3 (or 4?) months. Now it's completed, and I'm ready to share. So, here's the essentials:
1. This is a sequel to The Devil You Know, my previous SVU fic. If you haven't read it, I highly recommend doing so before reading this story, because Devil is heavily referenced throughout. It's not a necessity, but it will help.
2. While I had strong reservations about writing a romantic relationship between Olivia & Amanda in Devil due to the subject matter, I threw caution to the wind for this fic. Because I'm Rolivia trash. That said, this one deals mainly with Liv's recovery, so be prepared for some very dark stuff. (Seriously, guys, she's not in a good way.)
3. The Dark Stuff: TRIGGER WARNING! PTSD, references to/descriptions of rape, graphic violence TRIGGER WARNING! I will continue to add warnings to the chapters, as they apply.
4. The Light Stuff: I like to have a balance, so expect fluff and humor at times. There's even some smut (way, way down the road). But never fear, I only included what I felt furthered the plot, not just for shits & giggles.
5. Please read & review. Your feedback for Devil was a major factor in my decision to even write this fic. Keep it coming, folks! Also, I got smacked with a wicked case of writer's block during the completion of this story, and there were a few times I wasn't even sure I could finish it; I apologize in advance if the quality is a bit dodgy here and there. OH ALSO! Since this takes place in the Devil 'verse, that means some (not all) things from season 20 are excluded—namely Billie. I feel bad about it, but she just didn't fit, what with the Al Pollack (blaaarghhh) of it all. And a couple things might fly in the face of what the show told us, but shhh, I kind of like my way better.
6. DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but a handful of original characters.
7. Huge HUGE thank you to Amilyn for being my beta on this fic. You rock, lady.
OK, GO READ!
"But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews;
Arise, the pines a noxious shade diffuse;
Sharp Boreas blows, and nature feels decay,
Time conquers all, and we must time obey."
- Alexander Pope
. . .
From the Coxsackie News, May 17, 2019:
GEORGIA MAN GUILTY IN SPREE KILLINGS
By Jeff Warren
COXSACKIE—A Georgia man who worked as a semitrailer truck driver confessed in open court to killing five people along the East Coast, in a spree that ended in Coxsackie, New York, last week. He is also being charged in four separate murder sprees, dating as far back as 1988.
Thaddeus Orion, 54, was arrested Wednesday at a truck stop diner when another patron recognized him from a police sketch. He later admitted to authorities that he had killed three women and two men, including an unidentified 17-year-old hitchhiker, along his driving route. After further questioning, police determined he was responsible for a series of murders that have baffled investigators across the US for decades.
According to Sheriff Arnold Stander of Greene County, Orion detailed choosing his victims at random, mutilating their bodies, and often transporting them in his semi to be dumped across state lines. He gave no reason for his crimes.
"He's not remorseful," Stander stated in a press conference early this morning. "These were some of the most gruesome deaths I've ever encountered in my career. He described them like he was reading a phone book."
The suspect was arraigned yesterday in Greene County on multiple counts of aggravated murder. He will not be eligible for parole.
"The world just a got a little bit safer, with him locked up," said a woman who declined to give her name, upon hearing the verdict outside of the courthouse. "Hope they throw away the key."
CHAPTER 1: Invitation
February, 2020
. . .
"You so want to tap that. Admit it, you've been practicing your signature on the back of your little NYPD Trapper Keeper. 'Amanda Benson' in big swirly letters. Surrounded by cute little heart doodles."
Missing the holes entirely, Amanda's fingers collided with something solid and hot pink. Begrudgingly, she glanced down at the bowling ball, rolling it around until she could slip her thumb, middle and ring fingers into the designated slots.
"First of all, Trapper Keeper? I am an officer of the law, not a middle schooler in the 1980s," she said, hefting the ball from its rack. She used it to gesture at the woman seated in front of the scoring console. "Second of all, what makes you think I would take her last name? Maybe it would be Olivia Rollins."
Amanda turned towards her lane, eyeing the flock of arrows that pointed straight down the middle to the foremost pin. She balanced the ball at chest level and honed in on the small red dart embedded in the shiny yellow flooring ahead. "And third—oh yeah, I'm not gay," she said, as if it were an afterthought.
"Not if you can't find the holes better than that, you aren't," cracked Daphne, the smirk evident in her voice. "We're going to have to work on your dexterity before you level up to lesbian status."
Despite frantic pop music blaring from an overhead sound system and the thunderous rumble-crash that alternated between the active alleys on either side, a teenage boy the next lane over had obviously heard their exchange. He skidded to a stop at least three feet from the foul line and tossed a gutter ball that made his friends jeer and jostle him away like a bad Vaudeville act.
"You're traumatizing the children," Amanda called over her shoulder, before bowling a crisp, clean strike. She pumped her first once in celebration, then spun on her heel and sauntered back to the table. Go ahead and crack wise about my aim now, Daph, she thought, plunking down in the seat beside her friend.
Daphne Tyler, deputy chief clerk of NYC Family Court, dog mom to Hamilton the goldendoodle, and the most shameless flirt in Manhattan, had spent the early days of their friendship attempting to woo Amanda into a lesbian love affair. Though largely unsuccessful, she had secured one actual date in exchange for a peek at the file that helped lead Amanda to the Manhattan Mangler, a serial killer/rapist who tried to make Benson his final victim. The date turned out to be one of the best Amanda had been on in years, but she couldn't string the pretty brunette along with promises of a relationship that would never be.
Nearly a year and a half later, they remained the dearest of friends, despite the failed romance—a night they fondly referred to as their "little fling"—and Daphne no longer circled her like a prowling panther whenever they were together. She did, however, maintain a steadfast belief that Rollins had the hots for one Lieutenant Olivia Benson, a position she argued on an increasingly regular basis.
"That's how it starts," Daphne said during their last outing, when Amanda glanced up in the middle of a work-related tale, in which her boss featured prominently (and valiantly), to find a Cheshire cat grin on the other woman's face. "Infatuation with a gorgeous middle-aged woman in a position of power. It's like a gateway drug, Mandy Lou. One minute you're on your merry hetero way, the next you're strung out on The L Word and considering joining a softball league."
"You know this from experience?" Amanda had asked, snickering. She didn't mention that she'd watched the occasional L Word episode during downtime at the academy, or that her fast-pitch had brought more than a few recruiters calling at her college dorm. Best to keep her prowess with a softball and a remote control out of the conversation.
"Not exactly. I'm more of a roller derby kinda girl. But the scantily clad Xena poster on the wall of my childhood bedroom was a pretty big clue." Daphne had waggled ten slender fingers, several of them adorned with delicate bands and precious stones. "Doesn't matter the path you take. In the end, we all wind up with pitifully short nails and an affinity for hummus."
For their bowling alley excursion, the rings had been removed and were currently residing in Daphne's pants pocket. They created a noticeable bulge in the lush hunter green fabric, interrupting the smooth flow of her well-tailored slacks. Paired with a floral print button-down and a cashmere sweater the color of fresh cream, the outfit was more suited for dinner at the country club than girls' night out at the lanes ("So gay," the court clerk had said when Amanda suggested the venue). But that was Daphne for you—every occasion was a fashion op, and it was always better to be overdressed than under. Even whilst sporting a hideous pair of rented shoes.
Amanda had to admit, her petite friend did look lovely, her long dark hair caught up in a wispy bun at the nape of her neck. She patted Daphne on the back, catching a whiff of Chanel No. 5 on the breeze her hand generated, as the smaller woman groaned over the scoreboard.
"Is there any sport you're not good at?" Daphne asked, pouting a plump bottom lip. Her peach gloss still looked shimmery wet, though she hadn't touched it up since bowling her first frame.
"Hmm." Amanda pretended to think it over quite extensively. "Water polo? That one where Scottish guys throw trees?"
"Caber tossing."
"Because that's something everybody knows," Amanda said, eyebrows raised in amusement.
"Well, I attended only the finest schools in my youth." Daphne feigned an air of superiority, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin at a haughty angle. Then she shrugged and returned to a casual but far from slouchy posture. "Also, my grandfather on my mom's side was Scottish. He dragged me to all the local Highland Games growing up. Wanted me to marry a big burly Scotsman."
Amanda gave a snort of laughter. Picturing Daphne—a lascivious construction worker trapped in an adorable pixie body—with any man, let alone a hulking lumberjack type, was nothing short of absurd. "How's that working out for ya?"
"Give me a bonnie wee lass over those ginger-bearded Neanderthals any day." The statement barely had time to settle before Daphne snapped her fingers as if she were having a eureka moment. "Oh! Did I tell you I met someone?"
"Um, no," Amanda said, surprised it hadn't come up sooner. The clerk was usually ready to proclaim such news from the rooftops. And Amanda was slightly embarrassed to admit that she hung on every word like a thirteen-year-old at a slumber party. When your own love life was virtually nonexistent, you got your thrills wherever you could. "Spill."
"Oh my God. Well, let me just preface by saying she's gorgeous."
"Duh."
"No, I mean, like, gorgeous. She's an actress."
"Another one?" Amanda griped like she'd been served an unappealing dish at the dinner table—bland veggies three nights in a row, or liverwurst. "That last one was a royal pain in the ass. A hit series when you were ten years old does not give you license to treat the rest of the world like servants."
"You're still just mad because she kept calling you officer," Daphne said, giving Amanda's knee a sympathetic pat.
"Eight times. I told her I'm a detective eight friggin' times, and she still had the nerve to look me in the eye and say, 'Is that what they mean by"—pausing to scan Daphne up and down, Amanda wrinkled her nose and affected a snooty tone—"plain clothes officer?' Bitch, those were my real clothes!"
Daphne pressed her lips together, stifling the laughter that instead manifested in her bouncing shoulders. "She really was a piece of work, I'll give you that. Too bad she was so damn hot . . ." Her voice and gaze trailed off as she fondled her shirt collar, remembering. Then: "Anyway, this one's super sweet, I promise. You might've heard of her—Meredith Ashton? She's mostly done stage work."
When Amanda shook her head, the clerk made a dismissive gesture and went right on gushing. Two spots of color, roughly the size and shade of cherries, bloomed on her cheeks, cerulean eyes glinting despite the arena's outer space lighting. "Well, she comes from acting royalty and she's filthy rich. Plus, she's got this hair . . ."
"As so many of us do," Amanda prompted.
"It's not regular hair, though. It's like . . . it's like if a goddess gave birth to a unicorn, and the unicorn was covered in baby chinchilla fur. She's a chinchilla unicorn goddess."
Amanda stared with a blank expression for a full five seconds, then tossed her head back and laughed until her sides ached.
"I'm serious! You'll see!" Daphne swatted playfully at Amanda's arm. "You're gonna meet her in a week or so."
"I am?" Amanda asked between residual snickers, swiping a knuckle under both eyes to stanch her tears.
"Yeah, she invited me to her private ski lodge in the Catskills. Technically it belongs to her parents, but she uses it whenever." Daphne nodded sagely at the bug-eyed look her proclamation received. "I know. Told you they were rich. But I'm super nervous. I really like this woman, Amanda. I don't want to screw it up by coming on too strong. So, you're going to come along and be my buffer—"
"Wait." Amanda sat forward, suddenly all ears. "I am?"
"Yes. And you're going to invite your mad hot lady crush— I mean, your boss with whom you share a platonic admiration and nothing more because you're both sooo straight."
"I am?"
"Stop saying that. Meredith told me I could invite some friends, and I think it's way past time for me to meet this illustrious Lieutenant Benson I've heard so much about. So. Very. Much." Daphne punctuated the staccato words with a poke to Amanda's ribs after each. "You keep talking about how she never takes any time for herself, even after that nasty business with the Manhattan Mangler. Well, little missy, as far as I can tell, neither have you. It'll do you both some good to get away."
It was true; Amanda had expressed concern about her boss's tendency to overwork herself. On the rare occasions Benson let her guard down—usually late at night, after a long day spent rubbing elbows with the scum of the earth—she seemed weary, head bent low over her desk, hands folded just a bit too tightly. She professed to be fine, of course, and she did appear much happier since the adoption of her daughter, Matilda Cole, had been finalized. But there was a darkness behind her eyes that hadn't faded away, even after the Mangler case drew to a close. It was a darkness Amanda recognized from seeing it reflected back at her in the mirror, deep within her own eyes—once a pale cornflower blue, now a touch more slate.
Much like the lieutenant, she had thrown herself back into work after being cleared for the shooting death of Calvin Arliss. It would have been ludicrous to do otherwise; she wasn't the one he drugged, assaulted, and whose throat he tried to slit. She'd never almost been his mother. In fact, he was nothing—less than nothing—to her, a stain on humanity and on the city she'd come to call home. If anything, she should feel vindicated for ending his life. But somehow, lying alone in bed at night, she felt a niggling sense of guilt, as if she had taken something important away from Benson. Probably misplaced grief over killing the innocent Labott girl, which she also hadn't dealt with since that fateful standoff outside the residence of religious fanatic, William Labott. Poor skittish Esther who died twenty pounds underweight, secondhand clothes pooling around her skeletal frame, blood pooling under her ruined head . . .
Amanda surprised both herself and Daphne by giving a sharp, decisive nod. "You're right—"
"I am?"
"—I could use a vacation, and I've wanted to visit the Catskills ever since I moved to New York. No time like the present. Might as well live while I'm . . . relatively young. Carpe diem, right?"
Daphne narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing Amanda through a thicket of exceptionally long lashes. It tickled just to look at them. "Are you okay? You kind of turned into a walking platitude right then. Next you'll be telling me to 'Keep Calm and Bowl On' or something."
Ignoring her friend's keen observation, Amanda motioned to the scoreboard. She had come to play, not hash out her psychological trauma while Bowie crooned "Starman" through a temperamental stereo speaker in the background. "You better, or the computer's gonna think we ditched the game. I'll talk to Liv about it on Monday. She'll probably say no, but I can be pretty persuasive."
After a long pause and a quirked eyebrow, Daphne reluctantly took the hint. But she could never resist the chance to dirty up an ordinary comment. "And don't I know it," she said, sliding a suggestive wink in Amanda's direction as she headed for the ball return. "You forget I've been on the receiving end of those feminine Southern wiles. Your Liv's not gonna know what hit her."
"She's not my—" Amanda started to protest, then huffed and let her head drop backwards dramatically. Utter defeat. Her daughter had picked up the habit, head tossed back in despair, flyaway strands of blonde hair dangling as she was carried to the bathtub like it was the guillotine. Cute at five years old, but Amanda got the feeling it would come back to bite her on the ass in another decade or so. "Whatever, Tyler, just roll your gutter so I can get on with beating the pants off you."
She hadn't really heard it until after she said it. And of course:
"If you wanted to get my pants off, Amanda darling, all you had to do was ask," Daphne sang out, letting the ball fly.
. . .
Her palms were actually sweating. She couldn't for the life of her figure out why she felt so nervous, but she'd been pacing back and forth outside Olivia's door for the past few minutes, like a schoolgirl sent to the principal's office. After an initial false start from her desk, she had marched towards the lieutenant's domain with a purposeful stride, only to veer off in a random direction at the last moment. Not once but three times. Some of the unis were giving her funny looks. There was only so much imaginary paperwork a girl could search for.
Luckily, Fin and Carisi were out—if being summoned to a trendy nightclub to investigate a sexual assault in the women's bathroom could be called lucky—meaning she had Olivia all to herself. Why that seemed preferable, she didn't know. She mentally cursed Daphne Tyler for making her re-examine even the most fleeting thoughts about her boss. It was Liv, for Chrissakes. She snorted when you made her laugh too hard, and she'd had to ask Amanda how to enlarge the font on her phone because anything less than 45pt made her squint. Hell, one night they had even gotten tipsy together on a bottle of red wine and discussed cute guys during a sleepover, like they were twelve years old.
Smiling faintly to herself at the memory, she failed to notice the lieutenant's office door swing open. It wasn't until the husky voice asked, "Rollins, do you want something?" that she snapped back to reality and found Olivia standing expectantly in the doorway, gazing over the top of her glasses.
Apparently the unis weren't the only ones who had noted Amanda's shifty behavior.
"Uh, yeah, can I talk to you for a sec?" she asked, a bit too quick, too squeaky. She wiped her moist palms on the legs of her trousers. If she didn't pull it together, she'd soon be peeing in a cup to assure Benson she wasn't some kind of basehead.
"Sure . . ." Olivia sounded doubtful of her own answer, but stepped aside and ushered Amanda into the office.
For the first time in her nearly decade-long tenure with SVU, Amanda found herself really taking in the space that had once been occupied by Captain Donald Cragen. Under his leadership, it had merely been a formality, all mahogany and square corners, a room in which you sat stiffly and asked permission. Or forgiveness. Now it possessed a distinctly feminine vibe, the colors more soothing—even the wood had a cherry finish—and the furniture more comfortable. A snow globe, a crystal paperweight, photos of adorable children behind clear sheets of glass—beautiful and delicate objects that drew the eye but could easily be destroyed by an uncaring hand.
A dish of cinnamon potpourri on the coffee table lent the air a spicy kick, but a subtler, bittersweet smell lingered underneath. Dark chocolate with a tart burst of cranberry at its center. It occurred to Amanda that the scent must belong to Olivia, but she quickly dispelled the idea and distanced herself from the other woman, taking a seat on the coffee table. Too low, she realized too late. Olivia hadn't moved from behind the door after closing it, and Amanda was now eye-level with her very ample bust. Beneath an unbuttoned wine-colored blazer, Olivia wore one of those stretchy tops she favored, a chalky pink scoop neck that revealed just a whisper of cleavage. At a brief glance, the shirt appeared flesh-toned and created the illusion of bare skin. Amanda hastily averted her eyes.
Fucking Daphne.
Rising with as much nonchalance as possible, she reassigned herself to one of the chairs in front of Olivia's desk. The lieutenant watched the entire performance unfold, expression unreadable as her eyes tracked each movement. After a lengthy silence, she trailed towards the desk and, rather than take the customary seat behind it, perched on the farthest corner, arms crossed. Still high above her guest.
"You gonna tell me what's going on with you, or should we take this to the interrogation room?" she asked in a somewhat peevish tone. Earlier in the day, a man on trial for raping his five-year-old niece had walked on a technicality, then Olivia spent the better part of the afternoon fielding calls from angry family members and children's rights groups. Evening had been devoted to a mountain of paperwork that appeared to be whittled down to a small hill beside her laptop, though not entirely flattened. Now it was past eight o'clock and her children would soon be tucked in by someone else. No wonder she was surly.
Still, Amanda feared it went deeper than that. She hadn't mentioned to Daphne that—in spite of her admiration for Olivia, which bordered on hero worship—her boss seemed perpetually out of sorts with her lately. She could almost pinpoint the exact moment it had begun, too. Six months earlier, during a sting operation at a brothel believed to be trafficking underage girls, she'd gone undercover as a madam looking for fresh stock. Seconds after a transaction occurred, she gave the signal over the wire and identified herself as a police officer. In response, the pimp whipped out a MAC-10 and mowed down several of his own girls while attempting to pepper her with bullets. Fortunately, a fully stocked wet bar provided sufficient coverage. But a similarly dressed blonde near the exit hadn't been so lucky. When backup burst through the doors, taking the pimp out in a deafening hail of gunfire, Olivia had pushed past the SWAT team in their black beetle helmets before the smoke even cleared. The dead prostitute lay facedown at her feet, and Olivia had dropped to one knee beside the body, a hand outstretched towards the pale yellow hair that fanned out like sunbeams in a blood red sky. For one moment, she had looked so entirely devastated, it made Amanda's heart ache.
Then: "Liv, I'm here." She could barely hear her own voice for the ringing in her ears, but she got up from behind the bar and picked her way through the rubble and the wounded until she was standing in front of the lieutenant. "He missed," she added when Olivia gazed up, several emotions struggling for dominance on her face at once, the chief of which was confusion. Relief soon followed, until something else Amanda couldn't quite identify took its place. All she knew was that one minute Olivia was kneeling, and the next, she pulled Amanda into a hug so rough it felt more like a reprimand. The way a mother hugged a child who had just darted into traffic or escaped some other extreme peril unscathed. Before Amanda had time to reciprocate, Olivia pushed her back at arm's-length and walked away without a word. She'd swiped discreetly at her cheeks as she spent the next several minutes ushering a clutch of frightened young women from the premises.
Amanda thought—or rather, hoped—that the experience would bring them closer together, as some of their more dangerous cases had in the past. If nothing else, she expected an acknowledgement for her role in the sting. But other than a literal slap on the back from Fin, and a homemade card from Carisi that read Glad you didn't get shot by a pimp, her close call garnered no other attention—at least not from the person she'd wanted it to. Olivia never mentioned it again and their friendship had been strained, their interactions stiff and awkward, ever since. Amanda still received invites to Benson family functions, where she was welcomed with hugs and squeals of delight from the children ("Annamandy!" cried little Matilda, who at not quite two years old hadn't mastered the fine art of Auntie Amanda yet), but she couldn't remember the last time she and Olivia had a true heart-to-heart conversation. Or even just a laugh over a bottle of Merlot.
In fact, this office visit was the first time they'd been alone together in weeks. And Amanda already regretted it. What made her think Olivia would agree to go anywhere with her? The lieutenant clearly regarded her as nothing more than a troublemaking subordinate. "You know what," she said, giving her thighs a brisk slap and pushing up from the chair, "This was a bad idea. Forget I was here."
She headed for the door so rapidly, Olivia had to trot to get there first. Height and authority on full display, she blocked the exit and pointed at the seat Amanda had vacated. "Sit down."
Though censored, her tone implied a "your ass" somewhere in that sentence. Grudgingly, Amanda scuffed back towards the chair, planted herself there, and stuffed her hands as far into her pockets as they would go in that position. For one rebellious moment, she had the urge to kick back and prop her feet on the desk like a smartass teenager. At least when she got pissed, her hands didn't sweat.
"You practically wore a hole in the floor pacing back and forth in front of my office, so I know you've got something on your mind," Olivia said, resuming her own spot on the edge of the desk. She beckoned with her palm up, as if she'd been shortchanged from a handsome sum of bills. "Out with it."
Amanda looked up sharply, ready to engage in what her Georgia relatives would call "sass mouthin'." But as she gazed up at the woman she'd come to consider a close friend, maybe one of the best she ever had—until whatever happened six months ago, that is—her heart just wasn't in it. "Did I do something wrong?" she asked suddenly, wishing she could take it back, even as it came. She sounded like such a child.
"I'm not sure I understand." Olivia frowned, inclining her head towards Amanda, though her body remained turned slightly away. She had resumed a rich coffee-brown hair color, dark waves falling several inches past her shoulders. It was the longest she'd worn it in years, and it gave her a youthful and feminine appearance. As if aware of its allure, she swept the entire mane aside to drape over one shoulder, and removed her glasses. She'd only succeeded in looking more attractive. "Are you asking me or telling me?"
"I . . . I don't know." Amanda twitched her shoulders in a helpless shrug. "I mean, I guess I screwed up somewhere along the line? Things were great, I thought I'd finally earned your trust after all this time. Was I crazy to think we—" She caught herself about to say something else she'd regret, and changed paths just as abruptly as she had outside her boss's door: "It's not like I knew the guy would pull a MAC. But it's like you blame me for getting shot at, and I can't for the life of me figure out—"
"Whoa, whoa." Olivia waved her hands as if she were flagging down a runaway horse. But when she got the silence she wanted, she didn't seem to know what to do with it. Several seconds ticked by on the clock before she finally shook her head, dropping into the chair beside Amanda's, elbows resting on her knees, and said, "It's not about the sting."
The words were spoken softly, directed at the lieutenant's shoes, that curtain of long, thick hair masking her downturned face. Amanda stared at the back of her lowered head for a moment, unsure if there was more. Wanting there to be. Not sure why she wanted it so badly.
"You did a good job with that. I should have told you that back then, but . . ."
But . . . ?
"I just should've told you. I'm sorry I didn't." This time, Olivia looked up, offering an apologetic smile. "You're a gifted detective, Amanda. And I do trust you. As much as anyone. I'm lucky to have— I'm lucky you're on my team."
It was exactly what Amanda had hoped to hear. And yet. "Was it something else I did? Or said?" She leaned forward, mirroring Olivia's posture and putting them eye to eye. "Because lately I get the feeling you don't like having me around. I know the Georgia accent wears thin after a while, but I really thought I was starting to get the New York inflection down."
She pronounced it as "New Yawk," keeping a straight face for all of three seconds. When Olivia turned to her with a smirk, eyebrow hiked in amusement, she couldn't hold back a grin. That arch look was a step in the right direction.
"I don't know what the sound that just came out of your mouth was, but please, never do it again," Olivia said in a deadpan voice, briefly partaking in the humor before sobering to answer the question. "And you didn't do or say anything wrong. It's not even about that. Not wanting you around."
Normally, Amanda was the fidget of the two, prone to restless fingers, bouncy knees, and the inability to sit for long periods of time. But as Olivia paused to consider her next words, she began to fiddle with anything in reach: her glasses, the tiny buttons on one blazer cuff, a loose string on the other, and finally, the snow globe on her desk. She picked it up and studied the little golden Buddha inside, then rotated him with a flourish of the wrist that unleashed a flurry of shimmering gold stars within the crystal orb. It was a gift from The Met, if Amanda remembered her Benson historical facts correctly. Purchased for her by Alexandra Cabot, who had also sprung for the birthday tickets to La Bohème. (There was no logical reason Amanda could think of for the twinge of jealousy she suddenly felt, watching Olivia watch the pretty ornament.)
"Then what is it?" she goaded, unable to hold her tongue any longer. She'd already waited too long for this conversation as it was; she wouldn't let the evanescent former-ADA ruin it for her.
"It's . . . complicated. I'm—" Olivia gestured vaguely at herself, let out a frustrated huff, and set the snow globe back on the desk with a heavy thunk. "I'm just too fucking complicated, Rollins."
"Okay," Amanda drawled, studying the back of Olivia's head, which she'd lowered again. The urge to place a hand there, to stroke the lush brown hair behind an ear and reveal the brown-penny eyes flecked in gold—so like the Buddha's glittery crystalline world—rose up in Amanda. She forced it away. "I don't really know what that means, at least as it applies to us. Being friends."
Another smirk appeared on Olivia's lips, her face just visible in profile, but this one managed to look sad somehow. "Yeah, me neither. I think I'm just going through something. Menopause, maybe?" She laughed a bit harshly. "I'm feeling kind of overwhelmed by . . ." A broad gesture, encompassing everything and nothing. "This."
"This. You mean work?"
Olivia slid a glance sideways, catching Amanda's eye as she shook her head, lips parted. For a split second, she looked poised on the edge of something, like a novice swimmer about to dive into the deep end, but then she said, "Yes. Work, my kids, life. It's a lot sometimes. Especially when we lose people."
"People?"
"Cases. Like the one today. Seeing that poor little girl get sent back home to be abused some more by her asshole uncle, and we can't do a damn thing to stop it."
"Yeah, I know what you mean," Amanda said, though not entirely sure she did. She understood the frustration, felt it every time they failed to help a child—especially one so close in age to her own daughter—but it was a well-known hazard of the job. If anyone knew that, it was Lieutenant Benson, who had toughed it out in SVU nearly twenty years longer than most. Why the past six months should be any different, Amanda couldn't say. And she wasn't going to press. Olivia looked tired enough as it was, she didn't need Amanda whining around about not getting enough attention.
Time to put on your big girl panties, Rollins.
"Sounds to me like you need a vacation," Amanda said, testing the waters a bit.
Olivia snorted, finally loosening up enough to lean back in her chair. She stretched out her long legs, crossing them at the ankle, and laced her fingers together behind her head. Classic power pose and classic Benson. "Wouldn't that be something?" she sighed up at the ceiling, eyes closed as if envisioning a world where such things were possible.
Hmm. It wasn't much to go on, but at least she hadn't flat-out turned down the idea. Amanda cleared her throat and sat up straight, tugging at the flaps of her gray wool blazer. It suddenly felt very hot and very constrictive. "Well, that's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. I mean, besides"—your lapse into aloofness and my deep and abiding insecurities—"the other stuff."
"Oh?" Olivia opened one eye, curious.
"Yeah, remember my friend Daphne who I told you about?"
"The one who let you look at Amelia's sealed record without a court order, right?"
Amanda noted the lack of disapproval in her boss's tone and took it as another good sign. "That's her."
"I really should send her a thank you card. Maybe a bouquet. What's her favorite flower?"
A thoughtful gesture, to be sure, but how to tell Olivia that the court clerk had a filthy little mind and would probably squeeze a sex joke out of such a gift? Something about a preference for deflowering, more than likely. "I dunno. But you can ask her yourself, if you want. She invited us on a trip to the Catskills. The woman she's dating has a private ski lodge up there, and they're heading up next Friday. Coming home Monday. I figured since you never take any time off, you'd have the vacation days for it. If you want."
She had Olivia's full attention and both eyes focused on her now. A strange expression passed over the pretty countenance—a dark, almost imperceptible smile, a brewing in the warm brown irises—but it disappeared before Amanda could read it.
"Next Friday? Isn't that Valentine's Day?" Olivia asked, reaching up to toy with the small feather pendant on a slender gold chain around her neck. A dainty pearl, no larger than an apple seed, dangled from the quilled end. That had also been a gift—the necklace. On the day Matilda's adoption was to be finalized, a little brown package arrived for Benson at the precinct; enclosed were the necklace and a note written in exquisite penmanship:
Rise.
Love, Rafa
Tears in her eyes, Olivia had donned the lovely piece of jewelry and worn it every day since. She batted lightly at the pearl with her fingertip as she waited for Amanda's answer.
"Oh, right. I didn't even think of that," Amanda lied, making a show of leaning in to check the large desk calendar where the lieutenant scribbled down work-related reminders. "You've probably got plans. It's no big deal, I found out kind of last minute myself, so . . . ." Nothing else to add—at least not that she was willing to admit out loud—she let the sentence fade off there.
"I don't have plans, actually." Olivia stroked a finger over the minuscule grooves that gave the pendant its feathery appearance. For a moment, she looked like she might be considering the getaway. But she let the feather charm drop against her chest, splaying a hand over it as if she were reciting a pledge, and said, "I'm afraid I can't go, though. I've never been away from the kids that long. Noah'd probably pack my bags for me, but Tilly's still such a mama's girl. And I'd hate to ask Lucy to give up her Valentine's Day."
Amanda had expected as much, but it didn't lessen the disappointment of being turned down any. And now she got to be the third wheel while Daphne and her girlfriend canoodled all weekend. Yeehaw.
"That's what I figured. Luckily, Charlotte was free, otherwise I'd be stuck home with the girls, the Hallmark romcom marathon, and a half-eaten box of chocolates." Amanda made a face, though she'd honestly prefer moping at home with Jesse and Frannie than moping around in the mountains with a cute couple she wasn't a part of. "That is, if you can spare me?" she added, realizing too late that her eagerness to stay could be misconstrued as the desire to leave.
And sure enough:
"Yes, of course. Go." Olivia gave a wave of her hand, as if she were already sending Amanda on her way. "Have fun. You deserve it. Although, I have to admit, I'm a little jealous. A private lodge in the Catskills? Who the hell can afford that?"
"I know. Apparently she's an actress," Amanda said, affecting a breathy voice on the last word and batting her eyelashes, à la Marilyn Monroe.
"Ah, say no more," Olivia chuckled, putting a hand up to ward off the impression. They had both dealt with their share of actresses in the past, many of whom were every bit as high-strung and demanding as their profession suggested. In fact, any case involving members of the entertainment industry usually turned into a full-blown circus.
"Right? I don't know where Daphne finds these women. I can barely meet a guy who pays for dinner, let alone whisks me off to his private lodge."
Wow. Amanda had to take a moment to marvel at her own stupidity with that one. Not only did she just set feminism back a good thirty years, she got the sense that somewhere in the space between herself and the woman beside her—a space unseen by the naked eye—a door that had cracked open inch by inch suddenly swung closed, firmly and irrevocably. She tried to gauge Olivia's reaction, but a half-smile and a single nod weren't enough to go on.
She sighed and stood up. Best git while the gettin's good (or whichever corn-pone phrase properly summed up this disastrous encounter). "All right, I better let you get back to your paperwork so you can go home to your kiddos. Sorry I interrupted."
"Oh." Olivia brushed the comment off, getting to her feet as well. She hesitated for a few seconds, facing Amanda in an awkward stance—not at all the confident posture she typically wore like a snappy three-piece suit. From the corner of her eye, she spotted Fin and Carisi, who were just returning from their nightclub excursion and flicking waves at the office window. She raised her palm and straightened to her full height. "It's okay. Glad we could talk. Clear things up a bit."
Or not at all, Amanda thought as she headed for the door. "Me too."
"Hey."
"Yeah?" Pausing with a hand on the doorknob, Amanda cast a hopeful glance over her shoulder.
Olivia had resumed her post behind the desk, glasses back in place on the bridge of her nose, not lowered for a better look at distant objects, at faces. All business. "Just— thanks for the invite." She picked up the leftover stack of DD-5's and 61's in want of reviewing and busied herself shuffling through them, offering a final, distracted, "Have a good night, Detective."
"You too, Lieutenant."
. . .