The Devil's Cut

by Vivi Dahlin

To call it an eventful year would be an understatement. But as 2020 draws to a close, Olivia & Amanda are ready to put the Catskills behind them & focus on their future together. Then what should have been a simple errand turns into a deadly encounter that threatens to tear them apart forever. They say men plan & God laughs. Women plan & he pulls the the trigger. Devilishverse.

16. Chapter 15: A Secret of Chord

A/N: I was trying to get this posted before dinnertime, but I've been a little under the weather today and missed the deadline. Sorry about that. I'm glad the Rolivia kids were a hit in the last update. It's a lot of fun when they show up—more of that to come in a few of the chapters ahead. Look out for another special guest in this chapter. I think there's a small constituency who will be pleased, or at least intrigued, but... we'll see. Lemme know what you think.

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Now, I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do ya?
It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

- Leonard Cohen, "Hallelujah"

. . .

CHAPTER 15: A Secret Chord

. . .

If Olivia had to listen to Mariah Carey's breathy, high-pitched runs and riffs about all she wanted for Christmas one more goddamn time, there was going to be a hostage situation. (Crazed NYPD Captain Has Meltdown at Mall, the headlines would read in tomorrow's paper.)

She cast a guilty look at Amanda the moment the thought formed, but the blonde was lost in her phone, scrolling through some social media app or another. Olivia studied her carefully, on alert for signs that she was overexerting herself; other than the rosy cheeks, which they both had, there were none. It was sweltering inside the store. Olivia had removed her coat when they got there half an hour ago, and she'd even persuaded Amanda to hand over hers for carrying. But the body heat from hundreds of shoppers, combined with the desperation of parents who only had a week and a half left to buy the perfect present(s), made the tightly spaced aisles of the toy store feel like a sauna. Olivia regretted the fleece-lined chambray shirt and corduroy pants she'd chosen. Appropriate for the bone-chilling winter winds outside, not so much for the ninety-degree heat inside.

And that damn song. It had played three times since they arrived at the mall, twice in this store alone. Up till then, Olivia hadn't even known Mariah Carey still existed. Now all she wanted for Christmas was the pop star to go back to the eighties from whence those shrill vocals came. (That, and for Beth Anne Rollins to go back to Georgia.)

She eyed her fiancée again, considering voicing the opinion. Amanda was always amused by her observations on pop culture, sports, and anything else she aggressively didn't give a damn about. But the blonde was still playing with her phone. Before they got into line, she had been almost giddy about shopping for the kids. Some of it might have been the last minute rush—there had seemed to be plenty of time left, prior to the bank robbery and life-threatening injury—but to Olivia, that was more stressful than thrilling.

Amanda's excitement was infectious, though. Only a little over a week ago, she had gotten shot and almost died; tonight, she practically buzzed up and down the aisles (if her stiff, wincing gait could be considered "buzzing"), snapping every Christmas list item she could find off the shelf (as long as it wasn't over five pounds) and plunking it into the cart. Noah was getting the easel and jumbo-sized kit of art supplies he'd begged for over the past two months, Jesse would probably drive them all to drink with her new basketball and boxing gloves, and Matilda could play house to her little heart's content with the lifelike kitchen set and accessories. Olivia had never gone Christmas shopping with someone else before, and it warmed her heart to see the joy it brought Amanda. Anyone who loved spoiling her kids—all three of them—that much was a keeper.

But she was distracted, now that they were waiting in line. Her antsy side had kicked in, one leg jiggling incessantly as inch by inch they crept toward the checkout. And she kept glancing at the exit like she planned to bolt at any second. Olivia had thought it was just their claustrophobic surroundings, the stuffy air that smacked faintly of body odor, the same handful of obnoxious pop songs that actually had nothing to do with Christmas on repeat. Then a mall cop sauntered by the open storefront, hitching his belt up self-importantly, and Olivia realized what was really bothering her fiancée. This was their first big outing since the shooting, and here they were, waiting in a long, slow line, exposed to the public and anyone who might come along and upend—or simply end—their lives. Just like at the bank.

"Feeling okay, sweetheart?" Olivia asked, stroking the side of her pinky finger against Amanda's nearby arm on the shopping cart handle. She waited for Amanda to acknowledge her and the touch before making any further contact, not wanting to startle the blonde from wherever her mind had wandered. Olivia knew that distant expression far too well; she was usually the one wearing it. "You're awfully quiet over there. This isn't getting to be too much for you, is it?"

"Hm?" Amanda looked up and then around the store, as if she had forgotten precisely where she was at that moment. "Oh. Nah, I'm good. Well . . . " She pointed to the disembodied voice in the sky. "I'm fixin' to bitch-slap whoever's in charge of the Muzak, they play this song one more time."

Olivia laughed, nodding in agreement. "My thoughts exactly. Between this and 'Last Christmas,' I've listened to more Mariah Carey and George Michael tonight than I ever did in the eighties and nineties."

"Aw, you weren't a Wham! fan? Not even 'Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go'?" Amanda snapped her fingers and gave her shoulders a little shimmy, pronouncing the title in a cute singsong voice. Without a doubt, she knew every last lyric of the song and could sing it start to finish and in the right key. If the cop thing didn't pan out, a career in the music industry was always an option. "That was my jam in kindergarten."

"Huh-uh. I was all about Prince and Tina Turner back then." Olivia pretended to swoon, fanning lightly at her cheeks. "And Bruce Springsteen, yum. I listened to Born in the U.S.A. so much, I practically wore a hole in the record."

Amanda wrinkled her nose, examining Olivia with a critical eye. "Springsteen? Really, that's what does it for ya? All right, well, remind me to wear cutoff sleeves and a bandana next time we . . . y'know." With a glance, she indicated the other shoppers in front of and behind them, many of whom were within earshot. Any other time, she wouldn't have censored herself.

"Whenever that is," she added, with a weary sigh. Over a week without sex was proving to be a challenge for both of them, but especially Amanda. Her mother's continued presence would have killed the mood, regardless of her injury.

Despite repeated hints and a few outright suggestions from Amanda that Beth Anne find a hotel room, the woman had weaseled her way into sleeping on their couch for "just one more night" since that first evening home from the hospital. She didn't want to waste her money—or theirs, she'd said meaningfully, when Olivia offered to pay—on something so expensive, and so close to Christmas, for heaven's sake. It was the same excuse she used for not buying a plane ticket back to Georgia. And besides, wasn't it much nicer having someone around to cook and clean and take care of things while Amanda recuperated and Olivia brought home the bacon?

The first few nights weren't so bad, but now Olivia wanted to kick the busybody out of their apartment too. Beth Anne loved to instigate arguments and drive wedges, even among the children: "I think Jesse might be stronger than you are, Noah." "Matilda looks so pretty in her dresses. Don't you want to be pretty like that, Jesse Eileen?" "Lord, child, where did you get that red hair?"

The comment about bringing home the bacon had been a dig at Amanda, Olivia was sure of it. And the spat they had later that day about when Amanda should return to work and how long desk duty would last only confirmed it. No one had exerted quite so much influence over Olivia's household and relationships since she'd lived with her own mother, and she didn't like it one bit. She did not want to be the one who told Beth Anne to leave, but if things kept up this way, she wasn't sure how much longer she could hold back.

"How's the tummy doing?" she asked Amanda, hoping to get rid of the unpleasant thoughts about her mother-in-law-to-be. She was out with her fiancée, they hadn't had a disagreement in days, and they were going to spoil their kids rotten very soon. She wouldn't let Beth Anne ruin that for her. "It's not hurting you with all this walking and standing, is it?"

"Huh-uh." Amanda shook her head, but her eyes wandered as if she were thinking it over and doubting her answer. She glanced at the blank screen of her cell phone for a moment, leg starting to jiggle. It did that when she was impatient and when she lied. Thankfully, the latter didn't happen too often anymore, at least not with regard to Olivia. "I am gettin' kinda tired though, now that you mention it. Guess I'm not used to being on my feet after sitting around on my fat, lazy ass for a week and a half."

"Oh yes, it's huge," Olivia said dryly, and dropped a hand low on Amanda's hip for an affectionate pat. "I don't know how you live with yourself, looking like you do. Why don't you go wait in the car and let me stand in this long-ass line so I don't have to stare at your hideousness anymore?"

Amanda grinned, showing off some dimple, and stole a quick kiss on the lips from Olivia, onlookers be damned. She tilted her head just a bit when she stepped back, gazing up from beneath a pale sweep of bangs. "You sure?" she asked, blue eyes wide and imploring. She was turning on the charm, that much was obvious. "I can stick around and . . . watch you lift the heavy stuff, if you need me to."

"Thanks, you're a real peach." Olivia smirked at the reaction to her little quip—Amanda's tongue darted out and back in so quickly, she probably could have snagged a fly in midair—and shooed the blonde off with a wave. "Go. I got this. Turn on the heat so I don't come out and find a giant peach-flavored Popsicle where my fiancée should be. Here, love, don't forget your coat."

Backtracking a few steps, Amanda grabbed the leather bomber jacket she had almost walked off and left folded in the baby seat of the shopping cart. It wasn't her warmest winter attire, but her best coat now sported a bullet hole and a bloodstain the size of a dinner plate in its lining.

"Thanks, babe. Call if you need anything." She patted the pocket of her loose-fitting joggers. Denim waistbands were still too tight and restrictive just yet. She looked a bit like a ponytailed street tough in the hooded bomber, baggy pants and Nike high tops, but Olivia found herself smitten all the same. "See ya out there."

"Keys," Olivia called, and pitched the pink butterfly teether that served as her key ring to Amanda when she pivoted and put up her hands. The detective caught the unwieldy projectile as smoothly as any pop-up ball and flashed another wide smile before disappearing into the crowded mall proper.

Olivia's own smile faded as she watched the blonde ponytail be consumed by the holiday throng. She got the distinct impression that Amanda had been lying to her after all, but why or what about, she couldn't determine. The more she thought it over, the worse her imagination distorted the possibilities, until she was so distracted she barely heard her cell phone ringing in the cart.

Another chorus of the "Flower Duet" from Lakmé drifted up from inside her purse, alerting her to the caller's identity before she even located the phone. It seemed like another lifetime ago that she and Alexandra Cabot had attended Delibes' opera together, both of them moved to tears by the angelic harmonies of the soprano and mezzo-soprano who performed the duet. Afterwards, during the cab ride home, Alex had reached over in the dark, plucked Olivia's phone from her hand, fiddled with it for several moments, then returned it without a word. Only later, when Alex called to say she had made it safely to her apartment, did Olivia find—or rather, hear—the surprise: the ADA's calls were now heralded by the melody that had so swept them away on its enchanted wings.

Since that evening, Olivia hadn't the heart to change the ringtone. Until very recently, she'd seen no reason why she should. But as she finally unearthed the cell from under her wallet and a travel pack of baby wipes she kept on-hand for the kids, she felt relieved that Amanda wasn't there to hear the song or see the name attached to it. The vocals were entirely in French, and the detective tuned out opera like she had an aural immunity to the genre, but Olivia didn't want to chance being asked about that evening out at the theatre. That evening she had almost invited Alex up to her apartment afterwards, for a nightcap and . . .

Making a mental note to assign a new ringtone to her old friend, Olivia accepted the call, swept her hair aside, and tried to smile as she answered.

"Hi, Alex."

They hadn't spoken over the phone since that night back in November when Olivia announced her engagement, and instead of congratulations, received a lecture about intimate partner violence and the probability of Amanda being violent herself. Olivia had hung up on Alex for that one, and didn't hear anything more from her until the earrings arrived. A texted "thank you," an apology sent to Olivia's personal email, and a couple of voicemails that rambled on far too long were their only communication since. But then:

"Hey, Liv."

The pause lasted several seconds. It was enough time for Olivia to contemplate hanging up and going about her life like she'd never gotten the call at all. It probably would have been the smart thing to do. But she also had time to replay the good memories with Alex—fighting side by side for that which was undeniably right, inexorably true; late night Chinese takeout and playful bickering about who got the last egg roll; giggling behind their hands at the uncoordinated adults on the rink, but not daring to strap on ice skates themselves; deep conversations over sweet, creamy cappuccino or one too many glasses of wine.

What kind of friend would she be if she ignored the woman who—in some small part, at least—helped make her the cop she was today? What kind of person? She had told her brother not to call her anymore, and it was the last thing he heard before he died. She couldn't do that to Alex, not even to appease Amanda.

"Is this a bad time? It sounds like you're busy."

Olivia glanced at the line ahead, though she knew it hadn't moved. There were no fewer than fifteen people in front of her, much as there had been for the past twenty minutes. She was going to be here awhile. And it was still hotter than Hades. "I'm Christmas shopping for the kids, but the line practically stretches all the way to Schenectady," she said, flapping the collar of her chambray shirt. "If you don't mind the background noise, I'm free to talk for a bit."

"I don't mind." It sounded like Alex had smiled when she spoke, but a lengthy silence immediately followed and the tension was almost as palpable as the heat. Finally, in a voice much too forced for casual small talk, she asked, "How are they? Your children."

There was a hesitation before the word "children" that struck Olivia as odd, but she might have misheard. Between the chatter of her fellow shoppers, electronic blips from the checkout area, John and Yoko warbling about the war being over (slightly less irksome than Christmas pop ballads, still not something Olivia wished to listen to), and the din from the outer mall, it was difficult to make out certain nuances over the phone. Especially without seeing Alex's face.

"They're doing well. Excited for Santa to come." Olivia pressed her ear shut with the hand not holding the phone. "I think this might be Noah's last year believing in him. He keeps asking how Santa can get into our apartment, without a chimney to slide down. Then he asked if that was breaking and entering."

Alex laughed this time, and Olivia instantly felt more at ease. There hadn't been much cause for humor when they worked together, at least not during business hours, but she had always enjoyed making Alex laugh and was delighted to find that she did it very well. When they weren't at each other's throats, that was.

"Like mother, like son," said Alex, softly, maybe a little fondly. It really was difficult to tell over the sound system and the children's chorus of "Happy Xmas (War Is Over)." After a moment, she added, "I can't believe he's seven years old. I bet he's getting so big. And I haven't even met your baby. She's almost three now, right?"

It didn't come as much of a surprise that Alex had kept track of the children's ages. She had never forgotten Olivia's birthday since those early years at SVU, when they were young, idealistic crusaders for the same cause, not a gray hair or an ounce of fat between them—no attempted hit or repeated sexual assaults, either. Even during the years when Alex was in witness protection, Olivia had received birthday cards signed by someone named Emily, whose penmanship bore a strong resemblance to a lawyer's and whose envelopes never included a return address.

"He is getting big. He's the tallest boy in his dance class," Olivia said, unable to contain her pride. Height didn't matter, especially at age seven, before puberty and growth spurts and all the joys of adolescence that she and her son had to look forward to. But it pleased her nonetheless that he showed signs of being a tall adult. Just like she was. "Tilly will be three in June. She's the sweetest little thing, Alex. You would love her."

"I'm sure of it."

"Jesse turned five on Thanksgiving." Olivia fiddled with the straps of her shoulder bag, looping them in and out of each other as she tried to determine what the reaction had been on the opposite end. She didn't want to bring up reminders of their last phone call so soon into this one, but Jesse was her child now too, Amanda her fiancée. If Alex wanted to be a part of her life, she better get used to that. "She's a pistol, just like her mama. And so funny."

Alex took a drink of something, her ring clinking the glass, her lips releasing a faint liquid smack. It was too early to be drinking. Then again, maybe it was only water. "You've got your hands full," she said, giving no indication whether she meant it as a good or a bad thing. Or to whom she referred, Jesse or Amanda. "You sound happy."

Although a simple comment and a bit cliché, Olivia was struck by it. She couldn't remember the last time someone had said that to her—if anyone ever had. She wasn't a completely cheerless person, but her work often took a toll on her mood. No one wanted to see a smiling sex crimes cop or hear laughter ringing through the halls of SVU. No one would smile or laugh after seeing the things she saw day in and day out. It had taken years to learn how to separate work from her personal life, how not to take it home with her. Then it had walked through her front door, tied her to a chair, and violated her in ways she hadn't known were possible.

After that, happiness seemed unattainable. It felt like a chore. Something she had to work at; to make herself do, lest she forget how. Calvin and Amelia might have succeeded in snuffing out joy altogether, were it not for the unexpected gifts they brought into her life—her daughter Matilda, who was absolute joy personified, and the strengthened bond between herself and Amanda. Even in her bleakest moments, they were there, stars shining brightly in her dark and dismal night.

It occurred to Olivia then, and she couldn't believe how long it had taken to recognize the feeling: she was happy. In spite of everything that had happened in the past year, all the struggles and relapses, the relationship missteps and professional highs and lows—and yes, even in spite of that nightmare in the Catskills and the most recent one, at the bank—she was happier now than she had ever been. She had a family for the first time in her life; she had a partner whom she didn't want to push away for fear that they would reject her first and leave her more broken than she was already. She had love, given and received without condition.

"I am. Happy," she said, and though the words felt foreign on her tongue, they were meant wholeheartedly. Tears shimmered in her vision, turning the festive decorations that adorned every inch of the store into a kaleidoscope of Christmas colors, but she didn't shed them. They weren't heavy enough to fall. "Truly."

"That's . . . " Alex cleared her throat. It was a prim, barely audible noise, something you would hear at a garden party or the ballet. Over a cup of loose leaf tea, little silver spoons tinkling against bone china.

Other than Alex, Olivia had never met anyone who liked all of those things—the soirées, the swanlike ballerinas in their gossamer tutus, or the artisan tea in cups so fragile they almost crumbled beneath your fingers. At one time, Alex's love of pretty things was charming and romantic. She had seemed to Olivia as delicate as the bone china itself. Now she framed people for murders they didn't commit.

"That's wonderful, Liv. I'm glad to hear it. You deserve to be happy." She at least sounded sincere about the last part. The beginning and middle were harder to decipher. Her ring kept tapping the glass whenever she took a sip. "You've waited a long time to find the right person. I only wish you could've found her sooner. Amanda, I mean."

The longer Olivia listened, the more convinced she became that Alex was drinking something stronger than water. There was a looseness to her phrasing that didn't match up with the attorney's eloquent, almost regal way of speaking. That had always been Olivia's first clue that her mother would be soused before the night ended. The vague elongation of consonants and dropped vowels, the odd contraction here or there. Years of alcohol abuse had ravaged the English professor's vocal cords, leaving her with a permanent rasp, but through most of Olivia's childhood she'd had a clear, articulate voice, much like Alex Cabot's. It had been a lecturer's voice, powerful and commanding attention. When it drunk dialed Olivia at 2 AM to cry and apologize, or to scream obscenities and blame, she felt as defenseless and alone as she had at eight years old, hiding under her bed while Serena raged outside the locked bedroom.

"Why did you call, Alex?" she asked, though not unkindly. She missed talking to her friend. There was a time when she could count on the attorney to shoot straight with her, even more than her old partner had. Before feelings got in the way—for any of them. "I know it's not to talk about my kids. Or Amanda."

A high, hollow note rang out on Alex's end. She was tracing her finger along the brim of her wine glass, making it sing. Olivia had seen her do it, idly and lost in thought, on many occasions. Sometimes, Olivia caught herself doing the same thing. Alex, who could play "Clair de Lune" just as well on wine glasses as the piano, was the one who had taught her the nifty trick.

"No," Alex finally said. The ringing stopped. "You're right, that's not why I called. I suppose . . . I suppose I just wanted to hear your voice. It's been too long. And you were angry with me last time we spoke. Granted, it was my fault, but I—" She sighed heavily into the microphone. "Oh, Liv, I hate that we ended things on bad terms. I'm so sorry for upsetting you. I only wanted to know that you're safe. And that she realizes how extraordinary you are. Can you forgive me? Please. I . . . miss you."

The desperation and sadness coming through the phone took Olivia by surprise, and for a moment, she was at a loss for words. She didn't recall ever hearing Alex so impassioned anywhere outside of a courtroom or one of their offices, during a high stakes case. But there was something else that Olivia recognized, if only from personal experience with the emotion—a deep, overwhelming loneliness.

She felt guilty that she hadn't noticed it before. It hadn't even occurred to her that the ADA's dramatic career change might be due in part to that isolation she'd grown used to in witness protection. Alex's mother had died while she was in hiding; she had to leave behind all of her friends, who moved on with their lives; she formed no close attachments under her assumed names, hadn't allowed herself to. Olivia had done it for a few months as Persephone James, but Alex did it for years. Years of killing the real Alexandra Cabot, day by day. No wonder she lost sight of who she had been. No wonder she couldn't bear to lose another friend.

"Of course I forgive you," Olivia said with complete sincerity. One thing she had learned at a young age, for better or for worse, was how to excuse even the most hurtful comments being slung at her. When they came from your own mother—and you were just three, four, five years old—there was no choice but to buck up and take it like a pro. And when Mommy cried, begged pardon, and promised to never do it again, you gave it. You believed her. "Of course. I appreciate that you were trying to look out for me, I do. But I need you to trust that I can take care of myself and that I know what's best for me."

"Meaning Amanda?"

"Yes, Alex. Meaning Amanda." Olivia kept a level tone, though the question bothered her. Not only did it suggest her fiancée wasn't the right choice, it reminded her of the comments Alex had made about Elliot Stabler during their last ill-fated phone call—that she had let her former partner somehow mistreat her, that she was blind to what everyone else could see. (Like she had blinders on to the way the world worked . . .)

"The woman I'm about to marry," she said. "The woman I love. I know you're not fond of her for whatever reason, but she's important to me. If you can't accept that, accept her, then maybe we shouldn't—"

"I can." Alex set her glass down on a hard surface. Even over the phone, her expression was discernible. Rounded lips, blue eyes wide behind square-rimmed glasses. She was adamant, ready to make her case. "I do. I'm sorry, I don't know why I asked that. It's the lawyer coming out in me. If I didn't question everything people said to me, I wouldn't know what to do with myself."

Olivia allowed herself a small laugh at that one. She knew enough lawyers to confirm it was true. They always asked too many questions and were convinced they already knew all the answers. Though the explanation made her feel a little better, she still kept her guard up. "Hey, I'm a cop. I get it. But I hope you know me well enough by now to take my word for it when I say Amanda is an extraordinary person too. And she's been every bit worth the wait. When I thought I was about to lose her last week, I didn't know if I could even keep going. I was so . . . "

There didn't seem to be a word big enough, powerful enough, to describe the fear and devastation she'd felt watching Amanda suffer and bleed and fight to stay alive. She glanced anxiously around the store, suddenly wishing she hadn't let Amanda out of her sight. She couldn't keep her under lock and key, but they should have at least stayed together in the busy mall. Danger always found them; it was only a matter of time till it caught one of them alone, without the other to come to her aid, and then—

"Wait, what? About to lose her in what way?"

The sharp inquiry brought Olivia's spiraling thoughts to a halt, like a stick thrust through the spokes of a wheel. She blinked a few times, reorienting herself, reminding herself to breathe in, out. In, out. "Oh," she said softly, and all at once realized she hadn't told Alex about the shooting yet. "Oh my God, I didn't tell you. Last week we were at the bank when it was robbed. Female perp and three men. Four, counting the getaway driver. They held us at gunpoint, and when Amanda tried to protect me, the girl shot her in the stomach. The blood, Alex . . . I don't know how she lost so much and still survived."

Alex's gasp was a bit delayed, but appropriately horrified. "Oh God, Liv honey, that's awful. Is she all right?"

"She's better. Bouncing back a lot quicker than I could have." Olivia examined the puckered web of skin beside her thumb, where the stitches had just been removed. The impressions from the thread were still clearly visible, but they were nothing compared to the marks left on Amanda's body. Those, Olivia couldn't abide; Amanda, however, studied them avidly and with a sense of wonder.

The exit wound was healing slowly, a garish and misshapen star beginning to form in the blonde's creamy white flesh. She joked that it matched the scar from the Phillips head screwdriver Orion jammed into her abdomen almost a year ago. Pert'near an entire constellation by now, was her exact conclusion, switching back and forth in front of the bedroom mirror, shirt lifted over her flat little belly. She'd caught Olivia watching from their bed, and turned to the side, stomach distended as far as it could go with the sutures, bandages, and lack of extra space. Until then, Olivia had been hoping the detective had forgotten any mention of a baby. They still hadn't talked about it. With any luck, they never would.

"They did surgery to stop the bleeding. No organ damage, thank God," Olivia said, closing her eyes as if she were actually offering a prayer of thanks. She hadn't spoken to God since that day at the hospital. The anger hadn't gone away, despite Amanda's recovery. "It's a miracle things weren't much worse. She's luckier than anybody I've ever met."

"Yeah, she is." Alex nibbled on something, perhaps a fingernail. No . . . she would never. Her lip, then. "How's her mental state since that happened? And I'm only asking because I remember how shaken up I was for a long while after my shooting. First time in my life I ever had insomnia. And nightmares."

Olivia hadn't known that about Alex, either. It broke her heart to think of her friend, alone in a new city, with a new identity and no one to rely on, no one to help her navigate the PTSD she undoubtedly suffered after almost being murdered and essentially dying, as far as everyone who knew her as Alex Cabot was concerned. Olivia had lain awake at night for months after Alex's relocation, wondering how the attorney was faring. Now she knew.

"I'm sorry, Al," she said, lowering her head and her voice. The music had changed to that soft and drowsy choral from the Charlie Brown cartoon, and even the last-minute madness around her seemed to hush. It was an apology about seventeen years too late. "I didn't realize . . . "

"How could you? I was a thousand miles away." Alex's tone was warm, smiling again. Her cheeks were probably flushed. From the wine, of course. "You haven't called me Al since that night we closed down Bemelmans."

That was true. Olivia had tested out the nickname after testing out one too many cocktails on Alex's tab at the upscale piano bar; they had laughed for a good hour (the booze might have had something to do with it), until Alex finally poured Olivia into a cab, leaving her with a chilling ultimatum: "If you call me that anymore, I'm calling you Ollie."

The name didn't stick, but the memory of that night—the free-flowing wine and giddy laughter, the stolen glances and "accidental" hand touches—had stayed with her all these years. And it had just come flooding back with those two simple letters.

They were headed for dangerous territory, and Olivia needed to steer them back on track. She switched the phone to her other ear, the heat coming off the device making her feel like she was having a hot flash. Or burning in hell. "Sorry, it kind of slipped out."

"Don't be. I don't mind it so much anymore."

After a lame "ah" that Olivia had no follow-up for, she reverted to the topic they were supposed to be discussing. She wasn't one of those girlfriends who couldn't shut up about her partner, but in this case, Alex needed to know there was a line. And Olivia would never cross it.

"Amanda seems to be doing fine. Again, far better than I would, in her position." Olivia had, in fact, had a night terror earlier in the week, but it was so brief and Gigi had woken her up so quickly, Amanda didn't even stir.

Olivia was keeping her eye on the detective, and continued asking after her pain level and mood, though. Thus far, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Perhaps a little more grumpiness than usual, but given the hole in Amanda's gut and the interruption to her work and sex life, that was understandable. She kept complaining of boredom. "She's been shot before. Same place as you, actually. I don't know if that's the difference or not. Probably not, but as a cop it's something you prepare for."

At first, a small, inconclusive hum was the only response. Then: "How are you doing? You saw it happen? That must have been so terrifying and traumatic. Were you hurt?"

It was terrifying and traumatic, and Olivia had worried that she might experience a PTSD relapse—or something worse. But her determination to be there for Amanda, to care for her fiancée and be the strong one this time, kept her together and grounded. She couldn't afford to fall apart. She was goddamn sick of falling apart. "I wasn't injured. He barely touched— I'm okay. I just can't get the image of her reaching for me before she went down out of my head. And the blood."

The images would fade with time, that much she knew. Even the worst ones did. But she would never forget that look in Amanda's eyes when she fell, how she was still trying to offer comfort. That would be with Olivia always.

"Christ, I can't imagine. I don't even remember when it happened to me." Alex trailed off and though she made no sound to accompany it, she had definitely winced. "What am I saying? I'm sure you remember it a lot better than I do."

Olivia remembered Alex's near-assassination by the Columbian drug cartel like it had happened yesterday. If she thought about it long enough, she could probably even recall how the ADA's blood felt seeping through her fingers when she pressed her hands to the wound. She'd been so sure Alex was going to die. In a manner of speaking, she was right. "Yeah, I do."

"So," Alex said, after a lengthy silence on both ends, "got any plans for New Year's?"

It was a hammy, intentionally bad segue, and it made Olivia chuckle. She inched the cart forward with the moving line, smiling to herself. Alex's sense of humor didn't often make an appearance, but when it did, it was decidedly oddball. "Oh yeah, I'm gonna live it up with my three children under the age of eight, and the furbabies. It's going to be lit af."

"Lit af? I don't even know what that means."

Truth be told, Olivia didn't know for sure, either. She had picked up the term from Daphne, who claimed every holiday party she'd hosted, from Halloween on, was lit af. "It's short for 'lit as fuck.' I think it's this generation's version of 'bitchin'.'"

("Listen to you, mami," commented the young guy in line behind her.)

"Well, it sounds like an African literature course I took in undergrad," Alex said, definitely smirking. "And I'm being serious about New Year's. I'm going to be in the city for a couple days. Thought maybe we could get together, celebrate like old times."

Celebrating like the old times entailed staying up till 4 AM working on a case, nibbling bites of cold French fries and floppy takeout burgers, and falling asleep with laps full of files, their feet propped up on the closest chair or desk. But Olivia knew it went beyond that. The conversations they had during those long late nights were some of the deepest she had ever shared with anyone at that time, other than Stabler. Not a lot of personal details, at least from Olivia's side, but ideas were born, philosophies changed, and a lifelong friendship forged on those nights. She'd never had a close female friend until she met Alex.

"Oh. Um, I don't know if that's a very good—"

"You can bring Amanda," Alex said bluntly. "I meant the invitation for both of you."

That sounded like an even worse idea to Olivia. If it didn't go well between the two blondes, she would be stuck playing referee, and possibly bodyguard, all night. And it most certainly wouldn't go well with Alex's obvious mistrust (and jealousy?) towards Amanda. "Still. I'm not sure she'll be ready for a night out on the town by then. She has a long way to go in her recovery yet."

"Is it that or . . . something else?"

"What something else?" Olivia didn't need to ask. She'd already heard it in the other woman's voice. "You mean, do I think she won't let me spend time with you?"

"I didn't ask that."

"You didn't have to."

They sighed in unison, the sound exacerbated by the phone speaker. It rustled like tissue—or brown—paper, a thought that might have been inspired by the current track waltzing through the air, an instrumental version of "My Favorite Things." Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, calls from old girlfriends who still are quite smitten . . .

"Don't you want to see me, Liv?" Alex asked, and in her tone a sliver of hurt was as detectable as a splinter beneath the skin. "I know we have different views on a lot of things now, but I thought we could put those aside for one night and just be friends again. You're the only one I've got."

Son of a bitch, Olivia thought, scrubbing at her forehead with the fingers on one hand. How was she supposed to say no to that? Loneliness and depression were a dangerous combination any time of year, but even more so around the holidays. Suicide rates spiked, especially among those without family and friends. People like Alex, who drunk dialed the woman she had never kissed, never slept with, never dared. The woman she had almost.

"I'll talk to Amanda about it," Olivia said, trying not to sound as uncertain about it as she felt. The former attorney was a tense subject for her and Amanda ever since Alex's previous phone call. Maybe even before that. There were offhand comments ("That Cabot again? Shouldn't she be disappearing somebody right now?") and rolled eyes after a few of the texts and email alerts that buzzed on Olivia's phone at odd hours, in the weeks leading up to the call. She didn't want this to be the culminating storm, after those little bits of lightning and thunder. She also didn't want to lose a longtime friend. "If she doesn't feel up to it, I'm sure she'll be fine with me going out for a couple hours. I would like to see you and catch up. Let me know where and when, and I'll try to make it work."

"Great. I'll text you the details." Alex sounded more cheerful than she used to winning cases for a living. "I'm really looking forward to it."

"Are you okay, Alex?" Olivia asked, when they were saying their goodbyes a few minutes later. She was two customers behind in the checkout lane, and Alex claimed she had to go anyway, although not very convincingly. "You seem a little out of sorts."

"I'm better now that we've talked. You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice. And to know I'll get to see you in a couple of weeks. Merry Christmas, Liv."

"Merry Christmas."

An uneasy feeling had settled into the pit of Olivia's stomach by the time she ended the call. Not only was she concerned for Alex, but the thought of arguing with Amanda about her—this close to Christmas and this soon after the shooting—filled her with dread. Joni Mitchell was crooning "River" over the sound system, and as Olivia wheeled her cart up to the counter, she began to wish for a river to skate away on too.

. . .