A/N - I know I said it would be soon, but I lied. Oops. Enjoy this new chapter anyway .

Chapter 25

Olivia

Her old rickety chair creaked as she leaned back in it. The damn thing was probably at least thirty years old. It gave another low protest, as if it could read her mind. Most of the stuff in the squad room was ancient, paint peeling, old computers, greens and oranges prevalent from the seventies all over the place.

Foot propped up on the corner of her desk, she had a file in her lap and she stared at it, zombie-like, until her eyes went crisscrossed. She reached up and rubbed her eyes wearily. It was only ten in the morning, but it felt more like six am for some reason.

Glancing around, she took in the not-so-bustling squad room. Elliot was dozing in his chair, pretending to read with his head propped up on one hand. She grinned at him, resisting the urge to throw something at him. He must've perfected that pose in high school, and she had to admit it was pretty effective. The rest of the room was almost empty, save for Munch and Jeffries, arguing quietly about the moon landing's validity again. But the desk next to Munch's was definitely empty.

Brian Cassidy had been gone for about two months at that point and Olivia was mildly surprised that things were just a little bit dull without him. His puppy dog face and dumb jock humor happened to lighten the mood every now and then. She thought back to everything that had occurred between them and cringed inwardly.

It wasn't often that she allowed a guy to get intimately close to her, but Brian somehow wormed his way in one night at the bar when Elliot had to leave and Munch left with him, leaving only Olivia and Brian by themselves. She had a rare too many drinks and allowed him to kiss her. It had been too long since anyone had gone home with her, but allowing this to happen would have been a big exception, a huge mistake. She'd never even slept with a guy. Not only was he a guy, but a coworker to boot. So she broke off the kiss before things went any further. She had standards, after all. It was a mistake, just kissing him. A drunken one, no doubt, but the following days were even worse. His puppy dog face had been so eager when he asked if they were going to go out again soon. She thought he had understood, had hoped he understood, that she didn't want anything more. But he didn't understand probably that she definitely didn't date guys.

That particular detail was something she left out of their brief conversation, not wanting to reveal that part of herself to everyone on the squad. She was pretty sure Elliot knew, they hadn't ever really talked about it, but he wasn't an idiot. She still wasn't sure how to be out in the open about it at a job where women had to be as good as if not better than the guys to fit in and belong, and where most female cops were stereotyped as being gay anyway. She figured the news might reach their ears eventually, but her personal life was exactly that. Personal and none of anyone else's business.

Only now, Brian Cassidy had recently become an unwanted part of her personal life and the awkwardness of one person wanting to pursue a relationship, while the other does not, ensued.

Their falling out was not pretty, and Brian was unable to keep what had happened to himself. But as it turned out, without even saying anything, it seemed like everyone on the unit already knew what happened. Regardless of how insignificant the kiss was. Strange how much like a family they were. Everyone seems to know everything. It often made her wonder if they knew she was actually gay.

And then Brian started taking the cases personally, got too involved and couldn't handle everything. It was what, Olivia figured, most detectives went through who worked at SVU. Most didn't last more than a year, and there was a good reason for it. The things Brian saw over a period of about two or three weeks got to him. The victims were too badly damaged and he couldn't take it anymore. So Cragen found him a way out.

Olivia figured Cragen knew better than anyone how common the revolving door effect at Special Victims really was. She found herself wondering what would happen if she finally reached that point, that breaking point that all detectives have, when they've had enough, when they needed out like Cassidy did. He transferred to Narcotics one day and the only person he said goodbye to was Munch. But she wasn't offended.

She snapped out of her reverie when the Captain himself walked into the squad room, chest puffed out like he usually did when he had a big announcement to make. Olivia quickly jarred her desk, making it ram against Elliot's so that he would wake up and not be caught snoozing on the job. He jumped a little, recovered quickly, and glanced around at the room, trying to catch up on what was happening. Luckily for him, he hadn't missed anything yet.

"All right kids, the powers that be have some fun news for us."

"Oh boy," Munch said from across the aisle. Olivia almost laughed.

"Turns out, One Police Plaza wants every department to conduct biyearly psych evaluations. And guess who gets to go first."

"You're kidding, right?" Elliot asked, his lips wrapped around a pencil.

"Psych evaluations?" Munch said, his voice rising an octave. "I thought we were the ones trying to catch the crazies. Now they're after us? And why is SVU first?"

"That's right. We're the stepchild, John, you know that. I have a folder for each of you. Fill it out and then we'll figure out a good time for you to meet individually with Dr. Jackson, our most recent in-house psychiatrist, remember her?"

Everyone mumbled as they took a folder from Cragen. Olivia glanced through hers quickly and tossed it on her desk, planning to complete it later on. The Captain eyed her suspiciously.

"You will all take this seriously. Fill those out right now." Guiltily, she picked the folder back up, opened it to the first page and lowered her head to read.

"So, who's first on the witch hunt?" Jeffries asked conversationally, opening her own folder.

"That would be me. Now get busy." Cragen walked towards his office without another word.

...

About an hour later, they were drooling, half asleep over their questionnaires, which were chock full of ridiculous questions, when a man walked in wearing a baseball cap. Stabler sat up, glad to have something to do other than the task at hand. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," the man said, his accent thick and Middle-Eastern possibly. "I need to report a case of abuse."

"Okay, why don't you have a seat," Elliot said, pulling up a chair next to his desk, and Olivia leaned forward to listen in. "Who's being abused?"

The man went on to tell them that a woman approached him at his store, begged him to help her, said that she was in trouble. She didn't say anything else, only handed him a paper with the name Constanta Condrescu written on it. He told them he wouldn't have even contacted the police because she didn't give him any more information and he wasn't sure if she was telling the truth. But, after he reluctantly told his wife about it three days later, she forced him to contact the police right away.

They thanked the man and decided to tell Cragen about the new possible case, gladly leaving their questionnaires safely in their desk drawers. Cragen was not overly thrilled about the prospect of looking for 'someone' being abused, 'somewhere', by 'someone'. But they eventually decided to follow up on this Constanta Condrescu.

...

On their way to the morgue, Olivia wondered briefly how things managed to spiral down so quickly. One minute they were talking to Cragen about this case being a possible flop and getting their hopes up about taking the rest of the day off, maybe eating a decent meal and getting a good night's rest, and then they were chatting with Constanta, finding out that she had a niece named Ilena who fit the grocery store man's description, and now they had just hung up the phone with Cragen with bad news..

The case had turned from business as usual quickly to straight-up shit. They were showing the girl's sketch around, getting a few leads, finding out a few facts about the possible victim. They found out she seemed pretty happy, was just pushing a stroller around the park the day before. She was apparently a nanny for a rich couple, a vet and a real estate mogul. The Morrows. Upon deciding to pay a visit to this couple's apartment, they got the call from Cragen.

His news was grim. There was a body rolled up on the side of the Henry Hudson Parkway, and it was a very strong possibility it belonged to Constanta.

"Damn it," Olivia said, as she hung up the phone and turned to Elliot.

"There goes your early dinner with your kids," she said as she got behind the wheel of the car and waited for him to follow.

"What's new?" Elliot asked cynically.

...

Later, after they'd seen the body and confirmed that it was indeed Constanta, it was Olivia's turn to be evaluated. Or, head shrunk as Elliot called it. She wasn't nervous really, just a little uncomfortable talking about her feelings. Cragen had informed them all beforehand that each of her questions would be individualized about their cases and different incidences over the last year. For her especially, and Elliot too, the past year had been a doozy, and the shooting they were both involved in was sure to be on her list of questions. She squared her shoulders and strode confidently into Cragen's office, where the interviews were taking place. Doctor Audrey Jackson sat in one of Cragen's extra chairs, facing the other chair, waiting expectantly for her.

"Detective Benson, come on in. Have a seat," Dr. Jackson said. Olivia wondered if they taught all psychologists this way of speaking in school. Reel in the patient, make them feel 'safe', and then listen intently while taking notes about all the horror and pain they had witnessed. She sat, didn't really know what to do with her hands or legs, and after shifting around a bit, she settled for legs slightly apart, hands intertwined in her lap.

"So tell me. How has your time been in Special Victims so far?"

Olivia took a breath. "Umm. . . Busy?"

"Care to elaborate?"

She smiled. Olivia knew Dr. Jackson was just trying to do her job, and there was no reason really to make her job any harder than it needed to be. Fine, she thought.

"Okay. It was . . . difficult. For everyone on the squad I think. Several of the victims didn't make it, and that's always hard. We witnessed a woman kill herself. I had to shoot a man. Ended up killing him. But besides that, we helped a lot of people. Putting away the bad guys is why we do this, helping their victims recover and get back to their regular lives."

"Yes, I have here that you had to use deadly force a couple weeks back. Can you tell me more about that?"

A sudden flashback hit her.

In the laundry room of their apartment building, a battered wife was on the floor, her head was flat against the cold tile, held there by her husband's shoe. He had just been paroled, and the first place he went after being released was to his wife's place, found her in the laundry room and was now pointing a gun at her head. The wife had been giving sexual favors to the judge on the parole board to keep him in prison, but the judge had decided on a whim to let him out. The wife killed the judge and was immune from prosecution because she agreed to testify against him and his underhanded methods. And now that her husband was out, she was about to die. Elliot and Olivia were both in the room with him, trying to talk him out of it. It happened so fast. He raised his gun, ready to shoot Elliot, and . . .

She blinked, stared at Dr. Jackson for a moment.

"I . . . Uh. I just reacted. My partner was in danger, about to get shot by this guy, and I just reacted."

"And are you having any sort of nightmares or post-traumatic stress about the shooting?"

Shaking her head, Olivia gave a cynical smile. "Seeing a man on the ground with my bullet in him is not the worst thing that I've seen in the last couple years. We see a lot worse every day."

Jackson took a few notes, seemingly satisfied with her answer, and then she looked up as Olivia finished speaking. "I notice that when you speak about what you do, you say 'we'. And that's good. You see yourself as part of this team of people who are trying to help other people." She paused, taking a hard look at Olivia. "But what about you as an individual? Why do you put yourself through this?"

"For all the reasons I told you earlier."

The doctor's face didn't change, but Olivia had a feeling about what was coming. How and why this was in her file, she had no idea.

"So, your background has nothing to do with it?"

Olivia took a deep breath, steadying herself. It still wasn't easy to talk about this. And especially not to someone she didn't exactly trust. Although, she was a doctor, and everything they were talking about was supposed to be confidential. So she spoke. Perhaps it was in her file, maybe Sergeant Smythe had put it there. Or Cragen.

"I'm a product of rape. So maybe it does have something to do with it. I don't know. Sometimes I think I'm crazy to surround myself with these cases and victims who remind me every day of what my mother went through. But then other times I realize that there's no better person to deal with it than me. I think most of the time that I was born for it."

"So do you think perhaps sometimes you get too close to the any of the cases?"

"Not more than anyone else, I'd say. These things we deal with aren't easy. They're painful, for the victims and for us to see this sort of thing day in and day out. I try not to get too close. It's painful."

She wrote some more, her handwriting quick and smooth. "Okay. And tell me. If you weren't a detective for Special Victims, what would you be doing? Or if you weren't a cop at all, what would you be?"

That wasn't a question Olivia was prepared for. She paused, thinking it over, but she couldn't think of anything. Her mind was blank. After Sergeant Smythe suggested she transfer to Special Victims and showed her how good she really was at this sort of thing, she realized there was nothing else she wanted to do with her life. This was her calling, what she was made for. Her mouth sort of gaped open like a fish and she shrugged, unable to answer.

Dr. Jackson made another note.

…

That evening.

Back at the squad room, Olivia found herself in her rickety chair again, but this time, she wasn't feeling sleepy in the slightest. The big break in the case had come from a simple picture taken from the crime scene. They knew almost everything already. That Randolph Morrow was a control freak and his wife was a veterinarian hooked on ketamine. The wife had flipped on her husband already, told Munch everything, that her husband had used Ilena as not only a babysitter but also a sex slave now for over six months and she let it happen simply because it was no longer happening to her and she didn't want it to happen to her daughter. She was too afraid to leave him, was sure he'd kill her and her daughter both if they tried to escape, and that's why she was on the ketamine. Upon Constanta's visit to their apartment, concerned about her niece, Dr. Morrow didn't hesitate to drug her and then kill her, wrapping her up and dumping her on the side of road. As long as it kept Ilena quiet, she didn't care.

The only problem was that they couldn't find Ilena, and Morrow wasn't giving it up. She had been gone for three days. But they went back to the crime scene photos and noticed a rug in the master bedroom they hadn't seen before, one that looked a lot like the one Constanta had been wrapped up in. Olivia and Elliot rushed back to the apartment and found Ilena huddled in a wooden box under the bed. It had been too long since they had had a successful case and this was one was bittersweet, like any other success they achieved.

Regardless of whether or not they put away a rapist or a sick sadistic man like Morrow, there was always a string of victims, people affected by that rapist's actions, and another rapist or psycho to take his place. Ilena was scarred for life now, as was Dr. Morrow, and it was doubtful that she would recover from her ketamine addiction, but jail time for murder would help with that.

But, Olivia knew by now, they had to take all victories with a grain of salt. They had to appreciate the small things, because those kinds of wins were rare. And the mood in the squad room reflected that. Finally, they had gotten the guy and were celebrating and congratulating each other.

But it didn't last long.

In walked Cragen, and the obligatory smile that should have graced his grizzled features was curiously absent. And that meant bad news.

He did not look happy. "What's up, Cap?" Elliot asked, leaning forward in his chair, his face falling quickly from happy and satisfied to concerned.

"I just got our results back from our evaluations. Elliot, my office. Jeffries, you're next. The rest of you, go home. That's an order."

Elliot gave the room a mock-frightened expression and followed the captain into his office. Olivia wasn't as blasé about it, though. The things Dr. Jackson had asked her seemed pretty serious. Was she fit for service after admitting that this was all she had? Was it unhealthy, the way she focused all of her energy and attention on her job? She didn't know, and she worried as well for Elliot and what his evaluation might have held.

She wanted to stick around to find out what sort of trouble Elliot was in. And Monique as well, but Cragen had given them a direct order. Glancing around at Munch and Jeffries, she shrugged her shoulders, stood up and gathered up her things. She walked over to Jeffries and gave her shoulder a gently squeeze.

"Good luck," she said quietly. Jeffries could only smile, her face was difficult to read. Guilt, maybe? She wasn't sure.

Munch stood up as well, putting on his coat. "Apparently, we are not as sane as we appear," he said, rather ominously in that annoying way he had.

Olivia leaned down over Elliot's desk, grabbing a pen and paper, scribbling him a note.

Call me when you're done.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Alex

The phone rang on her desk, startling her from her research.

"Cabot," she answered, still rifling through her papers.

"Alex. Peterson here. How busy are you right now?"

It was her DA on the phone, and the only times he ever called were to give her information on a new case or to chew her ass about losing one. Working for the Investigations Bureau in Brooklyn, there was never much glory.

"Not very. Just prepping for trial day after tomorrow." She sat up straighter, set her pen down to listen more fully. Peterson cleared his throat on the other end. That usually meant bad news.

Damn.

"Come on over to my office then, would you? I've got something we need to talk about."

Double damn.

"Sure thing, I'll be right there." They hung up and Alex stood up immediately, smoothed out her slightly wrinkled skirt and reached around the back of her chair for her jacket. Peterson's office was only upstairs and down the hall, but he was her boss, and it was important to look presentable. She wondered what this might be about, thinking back to her previous trial, she couldn't think of anything wrong with it. She'd won, and that was all there was to it. And there was a good chance she'd win this next one as well.

Her fingers rapped lightly on his closed door, and when his muffled voice called out a 'come in', she did so, making her way to the chair opposite his desk. He eyed her as she sat. A big man, skin the color of hot chocolate, he was probably forty-five or forty-six, his dark hair was rapidly receding on his head.

"Alex, how are you?" And before she could answer, "congratulations on your win last week. I heard good things about your trial."

She nodded, reached up and adjusted her glasses nervously. "Thank you."

He must have realized some time ago that she wasn't one for beating around the bush or sitting around chatting about the weather, because he immediately jumped into what he wanted to say.

"Listen, I know I've probably got you all worked up, calling you down here like this, but I have some news that I think is good news, but I'm not sure how you'll feel about it. So as soon as I heard, I wanted to bring you up here and tell you face to face."

She stared at him, wrung her hands out briefly, than stilled them. "What is it?"

"Well, there's a position in the Manhattan DA's office available as of today and I put in my suggestion for who I think is the right person for the job."

"Manhattan, really?" She asked, brow furrowing. "I haven't heard of any new positions lately. No one has quit or been fired have they? Not since . . ."

But she couldn't finish. Everyone who worked in any of the DA's offices in any of the Boroughs was familiar with the happenings of Manhattan's office. It was sort of the center piece. And not since Karen Fitzgerald was killed a while back had any positions opened up. Alex couldn't bring herself to speak about it.

"Fitzgerald?" He finished for her, unaware of course that hearing the name said aloud caused an inward cringe and painful knotting of her stomach. "Right. But this one is a new position."

"Okay, for what division?"

He leaned forward. "Have you heard about the psych evaluations they've implemented over in Manhattan? For all the detectives?"

She shrugged. "I've heard it mentioned in passing."

"Well, the first division to undergo the evaluations was Special Victims." He waited, and when she didn't react, he continued. But what he didn't realize was that he had mistaken the fact that she had inwardly frozen at the mention of SVU for a simple, indifferent non-reaction. She guessed he expected an eye roll or something like that at the mention of the 'panty police'.

"And they don't really have a set ADA. But even if they did, that person would be fired as of today."

She frowned. Alex thought Abbie Carmichael had taken most of SVU's cases. And Abbie never did a half-assed job. "Why is that?" she asked.

Peterson fiddled with a miniature sandbox on his desk, taking the tiny rake and smoothing out the sand. Alex wanted to dump it in the trash. Tiny rake and all. If only he'd hurry up and get to the point.

"Their conviction rate is shit, has been ever since Alden took over the caseload from Carmichael." Oh, she thought. "And on top of that, their psych evaluations came back and I don't have the details of course, but I hear a couple of them were so bad, old Cragen has to get up in front of the Morris Commission and explain himself."

"So what does that have to do with the job opening? They're planning on making a position full-time for an SVU ADA? All because a couple detectives had some bad evaluations?"

He grinned, set the baby rake down and twined his fingers together. "That's right. And I knew you'd be skeptical, but this squad needs help. Serious help. We'll find out for ourselves what exactly happened with the evaluations at the hearing tomorrow, and you'll be able to meet Cragen there."

The color must have drained out of her face, however pale it already was. He back-pedaled, "That-is, if you take the job. If not, some amateur will get it and you'll miss your chance to get out of here and into the dog fight."

"The dog fight?"

"That's right." And she was silent for a while, trying to silence her swimming mind. SVU meant Manhattan. SVU meant Olivia. Shit. Shit.

"So," she said slowly. "When do I let you know my decision?"

"Honestly?" He asked, his voice surprised. "I don't think you need to think too hard about this one, Cabot."

"And why is that?" It was difficult to keep the skepticism and snide tone out of her voice. This was her boss, after all.

"You have political aspirations, yes?"

"Yes, of course."

"I know. You'd make a great senator. SVU is your next stop, the next rung on the ladder for you."

She shook her head. "But their conviction rate is low. It's next to impossible to solve rapes without a slam dunk case with DNA."

"Exactly. That's what you excel at. And if anyone can turn SVU around, it's you. They're in hot water over there. They need someone like you to keep them from drowning."

"So I'm just the clean-up crew? How is that going to help me climb the political ladder?" He was going to have to work harder than that to convince her.

"You want the sympathetic women's vote? This is it. You want men to respect you and believe you can hang with the boys... Then you go after the boys club, grab them by the balls and don't let go. The rape culture of this country is out if control and you know it."

Alex said nothing. She still wasn't completely sold. But she was mildly impressed that Peterson was aware of 'rape culture'.

"Anyway, think about it some more. It's only a year, maybe two. And you'd get to be back in Manhattan. Your mother lives over there, right?"

She nodded. "Great. Well, sleep on it. Let me know first thing in the morning and then we'll go listen in on the hearing at three pm."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .