A/N: Glad you guys are enjoying the snippets of journal entries. They're always a lot of fun to write. I don't think this chapter needs any trigger warnings, but I do want to clarify that a couple of the characters mentioned are canon on the show. Rebecca Hendrix (Mary Stuart Masterson) appeared in seasons 6, 7 and 8 of the series, and Rachel Wilson (Holly Robinson Peete) is the Vice officer who commits suicide in "The Longest Night of Rain" (episode 21.12). Just FYI so it doesn't seem like I'm pulling OCs out of thin air: they are established characters already, I just had some major headcanon explosions about Liv's attitude with Rebecca after rewatching those episodes a few months back, and I really wanted it to be Devilishcanon. Also, I almost forgot that there is another piece of... artwork to go with the next chapter. It's not a cover, but it's related to the chapter and I giggled a lot while making it. So, heads up, there'll be a new thing this site won't let me post in the next update, but it'll be on the other sites. Enjoy the weekend, my friends.
CHAPTER 35: Let No Man Put Asunder
. . .
It had to be kismet.
The earrings were worth almost the exact price of the new rings—one of them, anyway. Olivia paid for the mate out of pocket. She wasn't accustomed to dropping two thousand dollars on jewelry (four thousand altogether, with the money from the returned earrings) like it was nothing. She half-expected some sort of fanfare as she pushed her card into the chip reader and scribbled out her signature, but there was more ceremony in purchasing a Snickers from the gas station.
These were some damned expensive Snickers. But once Amanda had shown her the ring online, explaining why it suited her so perfectly ("You're like the rose in the middle, keeping me centered, always"), the deal was sealed. Olivia wanted it, not for the rose—although that was beautiful—but for the sapphires flanking it. They reminded her of Amanda's eyes. Together, the flower and the jewels, inextricably combined, were a perfect representation of both women.
Plus, the thought of seeing it on Amanda's finger, knowing the detective was finally hers, made Olivia practically giddy with excitement. It might have made her a little impulsive as well, she considered, as she returned the debit card to her purse and accepted the gift bag the clerk presented to her by its braided velvet handles.
But even in her spontaneity, she hadn't completely lost her head. The original rings, which she truly did love and would have gladly continued wearing despite the negative memories now attached, were past the return or exchange dates—but lots of people had separate engagement and wedding bands, right? She and Amanda could be those people, most of whom, true, were probably much wealthier; or they could find a jeweler who would give them cash back. That was something to be discussed later, when the time was right and money wasn't such a sore subject between them.
She really shouldn't have spent so much before the wedding, but she had a hefty savings built up, it was hers to do with as she pleased, and they weren't planning anything extravagant. Olivia had no family to invite and Amanda didn't want any of hers in attendance, so the guest list read a little like the start of a bad joke: Two cops, a lawyer, a bisexual and a lesbian walked into a church . . .
There were others who could be invited, of course—Lucy, their ever faithful nanny; Cragen and Munch, if the retirees weren't on separate cruises somewhere; Amaro, perhaps, with a few awkward phone calls; Alex, if they wanted to tempt fate; even Elliot Stabler, should Olivia feel particularly daring—but the idea of a large, expensive wedding didn't appeal to either bride. It should be simple, intimate, and low-key, they had agreed. That didn't mean the wedding rings had to follow the same guidelines.
The only potential problem Olivia could foresee was Amanda asking how she'd paid for the jewelry. If the detective found out that one of the rings was purchased almost in full with the earrings Alex had sent, the new bands would be even more tainted than the old. Precisely why Olivia didn't plan to tell her. She wouldn't lie, but neither would she offer the information unless pressed.
She hadn't told Alex, quickly nixing the idea to call her as soon as it occurred. The earrings were likely past their return date as well, and besides that, asking for a receipt would just be tacky and hurtful. They hadn't met for lunch on New Year's Eve. One uncomfortable FaceTime call, during which they mostly stared at their screens in excruciating silence, and a handful of falsely cheerful texts were the extent of their communication since that night beside the Christmas tree. Someday they might be able to rekindle their friendship—if Amanda could accept that, and if Alex could accept Amanda—but now wasn't the time.
So, Olivia had taken the earrings to one of the more reputable private jewelers she knew from her days of pounding the pavement as a beat cop. The owner was ancient now, but he remembered her well ("Officer Benson, look at you all grown up," had been his sweet, if somewhat outdated, greeting) and he still knew beautiful gems when he saw them. Olivia had almost gasped aloud when he offered her two thousand dollars for the earrings. Alex always did have expensive taste.
And now she had the rings. She just needed the girl.
The girl was seated across from her that night, slurping spaghetti noodles between pursed lips like she was drinking through a straw, and occasionally nudging Olivia's foot with hers under the table. They hadn't gone out for a nice dinner since before the shooting, and Olivia felt a bit out of place in the classy restaurant, after almost two months of eating at home in her sweats or scarfing something down at her desk. Watching Amanda eat her spaghetti as if she were reenacting a solo version of the scene from Lady and the Tramp helped.
It was such an incongruous image—the pretty blonde in a champagne-colored silk dress, her hair in one of its side swept updos with a froth of pale curls, all the while pounding pasta like she was in an Italian eating contest. Olivia didn't mind. After weeks of disinterest in food, Amanda's voracious appetite was a welcome sight, along with that gorgeous, sensuous dress (it flowed down her body like honey), the first she had worn since her injury.
She had complained about her flabby, scarred belly when she shimmied into the bodice, but Olivia had talked her into keeping the dress on, slipping both arms around her from behind, their gaze meeting in the mirror. There was a moment's hesitation as they both recalled the last time they stood in front of the bedroom mirror like that, then Olivia said, "You look beautiful. Please wear it," and that was that.
They had turned more than a few heads entering the restaurant, Amanda light and ethereal in the dress and wrap—despite her complaints that she was "pudgy"—Olivia a dramatic contrast in jewel tones: high-waisted burgundy trousers, royal blue blouse with a V-neck that opened nearly to her navel, and a herringbone trench coat that fit like an extra long blazer. "That my reward for wearing this?" Amanda had asked, when they were seated and Olivia unbuttoned the coat to reveal the daring swath of skin extending well beyond her cleavage.
"I can close it, if you prefer," Olivia had teased, drawing shut the lapels of the trench.
"Don't you dare."
Half an hour later, Amanda had destroyed the breadbasket and was already nearing the dregs of her spaghetti with meatballs. Concerned the plan was about to go awry, Olivia asked, "You want some more breadsticks? Let's have some more breadsticks," and without waiting for a reply, signaled the server she'd made the arrangements with earlier. If this didn't work, they would probably be the first couple in history whose surprise proposal was ruined by the ability of one of the brides to inhale food like a Shop-Vac.
They were probably also one of the few couples in history to propose to each other three times, but Olivia had never really gone the traditional route in life, so why start now? Her fiancée deserved a romantic gesture once in a while—even if she pretended not to like them—and Olivia didn't want the memory of their last re-proposal to be shrouded in sadness and guilt. She wanted this memory: Amanda with marinara sauce on her chin, chiseling a bite from a giant meatball and grinning from across the candlelit table as she chewed. (Her eyes were on the swell of breast just visible at either side of Olivia's gapped blouse.)
"Enjoying the view, are we?" Olivia swirled a fettuccine noodle around the tines of her fork, making no attempt to impede Amanda's sightline. In fact, she ensured that her arm was well out of the way as she spooled up the noodle and brought it to her lips.
"Mm-hmm." Amanda nodded unabashedly, the toe of one champagne-colored pump sneaking up the cuff of Olivia's pants.
The shoe had a velvety texture that made it feel like a small creature was nuzzling against Olivia's bare ankle. She felt that nuzzle in every square inch of her body. She chased the fettuccine with a long pull from her water glass, and by the time she finished, the breadsticks had arrived. "Thank you," she said, with a deliberate glance to the server, who gave her a double thumbs-up behind Amanda's back.
"Ugh." Amanda rested a hand on her stomach, gazing dubiously at the basket Olivia nudged towards her after selecting the topmost strip. "I dunno if I can fit another one in me. I'm fixin' to pop out of this dress as is."
"Well, as much as I'd like to see that, I don't think one more will hurt." Olivia bit off a chunk of bread and found she didn't have to pretend it was delicious—fresh out of the oven and doused in garlic butter, the bread practically melted in her mouth. "Mmm my God, that's good. Nice and hot, just the way you like them . . . "
Okay, maybe she was overselling it a tad, and Amanda had started to look suspicious—she was usually the one who encouraged Olivia to eat past full, not vice versa—but she couldn't wait to see the reaction when the blonde uncovered her surprise. Giving presents to Amanda was almost as enjoyable as giving them to the kids. The excitement levels of the recipients were more or less equivalent.
"All right, you talked me into it," Amanda said, and peeled the middle breadstick from the trio slanted together against the side of the basket like a tiny raft run aground on some rocks. Or a rock. "But if I bust a seam or a gut, you're gonna have to—"
Beneath the empty middle slot, the corner of the ring box, itself a diamond shape turned on its side like that, jutted out noticeably. And if that hadn't caught Amanda's attention, the shiny little bow—no bigger than a bumblebee—was bound to, especially when it slid off the box top, loosened by the heat and oily garlic, and tumbled onto the cloth napkin below. Maybe breadsticks weren't the best choice of food for ring concealment after all. (But Olivia couldn't very well hide it in the spaghetti, now could she?)
"What the hell?" Amanda asked, puzzling over the bow for a moment. She poked it with a cautious finger, as if might be alive, then spotted the box beside it and looked to Olivia for confirmation.
Olivia grinned, the only consent needed. Snatching up the box, Amanda upended it on the tablecloth, hastily polished her fingers with the napkin Olivia wagged at her, and separated the white gift box from its lid like she was Indiana Jones liberating an ancient artifact from a weight-sensitivity booby trap. The candle flames glinted in her eyes as she plucked up the velveteen box she'd revealed, turned it over, and—with one last glance at Olivia—snapped open the hinged lid.
"Still wanna marry me, little pretty?" Olivia asked, head tilted fondly as she admired every lovely nuance of Amanda's expression, from the dazzled widening of her eyes (they shimmered on their own now) to the slow-spreading smile that brightened into a full beam. Amanda Jo Rollins was literally glowing. "I promise I'll spend the rest of my life making you as happy as you've made me. And loving you no matter what life throws at us. I'll be a good mommy to Jesse and make sure she knows how loved she is every single day. And I'll do everything in my power to keep both of you safe, always."
Somewhere around the mention of her daughter's name, Amanda had begun to cry, her tears silvery in the candlelight. She laughed once, lightly, as if helplessly bemused by her own emotions, then gave an adamant nod until she regained her voice. "Yes, I'll marry you, darlin'," she said, tugging the original engagement band from her finger and extending her hand for Olivia to put the new ring on. "I want to just as much now as the first two times I asked. More, probably, 'cause now I know how much I've got to lose. I won't make that mistake ever again."
There was a smattering of applause from the tables on either side of them as Olivia slid the ring onto Amanda's finger. She hadn't realized they had attracted an audience, and her cheeks flooded with warmth, though the tables were spread out enough, the background chatter at a moderate volume, it was unlikely the intimate exchange had been overheard.
She kept hold of Amanda's fingers for a moment, gently buffing the knuckles with her thumb and drinking in the sight of the lovely, sparkling hand and the lovely, sparkling blonde to whom it belonged (to whom she belonged). "Love you," she mouthed, and flushed again—this time with pleasure—when Amanda mouthed it back.
"Look in the zipper pocket of your purse," Olivia instructed, once the onlookers returned to their meals, silverware clinking on plates and bowls, conversation resuming at a low, steady hum.
Just as Olivia expected, the pale pink clutch Amanda had set out on the bedspread while choosing her ensemble for the evening had served as little more than a fancy cell phone holder thus far. It had been simple enough to sneak the ring in: wait till Amanda's pinning up hair in bathroom, remove ring from box, slip ring into tiny inner pocket of purse—zip, click, voila!
The real trick was keeping an eye on the clutch all night to be sure Amanda didn't forget it somewhere between the apartment and the restaurant. She had it beside her on the table now, and she dug in with the same eagerness she'd shown unboxing the previous ring. When she pulled out its mate, her mouth worked wordlessly for a few seconds. Then, astonished: "How did you even pull this off?"
"Well, this one—earlier, when I said I was going to the restroom? Yeah, no, I was giving the ring to our waiter. I set the whole thing up when I made the reservations." Olivia grinned proudly, delighted by her own craftiness. She might be a terrible liar, but she was cunning as hell when it came to surprises. "And that one I just snuck into your purse while you were getting ready."
"No, I mean . . . they're so expensive. How'd you manage to get one, let alone two?" Amanda pinched the ring by the band, switching it back and forth, capturing the gleam from the candle inside the bejeweled rose, setting the petals aflame.
Stealing fire from the gods, Olivia thought, distantly, unhelpfully. Amanda had asked the exact question she didn't want to answer, and she wouldn't start out their life together with a lie. She could, however, be vague and evasive. "I had some extra cash. Some savings. Don't worry, we can afford it. Anyway, it's your money too, now. We just have to get back to the bank and make it official."
Amanda looked searchingly at her, halting the metronome-like to and fro of the ring, extinguishing the flame. "You sure you still wanna do that? I'd understand if you didn't."
"Amanda, I'm planning on spending the rest of my life with you. Finances are just one more thing we'll figure out. Together." Olivia reached across the table, fingers poised for her fiancée to slip on the ring. "You gonna put that sucker on me, or what?"
"Yes, ma'am." Amanda slid the new ring into place, on top of the old one, which Olivia hadn't let her remove. "Guess we'll have to find someplace to sell the other two, huh?"
"You kidding me? I waited this long to get hitched, I'm keeping both."
"Oh, Lord. Woman, you're gonna put me in the poorhouse for sure."
. . .
February 1, 2021
Operation Third Time's a Charm was a success. She said yes! And so far she's accepting the explanation for how I bought the rings. She'll probably ask about the earrings eventually, when she never sees me wearing them, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.
For now, things are good—really good—again, and I won't let Alex or anyone else, including myself and my all-fired need for honesty, ruin that. Sometimes the truth is better left unsaid, if it will only hurt someone. Poor Alex, though. I feel bad about the way we left things. Or the way I asked her to leave them when I sent her away. I hope she can find someone . . . I hope she didn't wait this long because of me . . .
It reminds me of Becky. I said as much to Lindstrom, then of course I had to explain the whole ugly story to him, and I wished I'd kept my mouth shut. And now I've gone and opened it again, haven't I?
Becky is Rebecca Hendrix, my old friend from the academy. There were only three of us—female recruits, that is—back then: Rebecca, Rachel Wilson (RIP), and myself. We were pretty tight for a while, until Rachel got sick of the guys calling us TLC, like the girl group. She thought it made us look weak, only hanging out with each other, so she ditched us. I didn't hold it against her. But after she left, Becky and I got . . . closer.
Let me just start by saying that I'd hardly had any female friends up to that point, so I didn't realize how intense those relationships could be. So maybe I did mistake it for something else. But I'm getting ahead of (or behind?) myself. I forgot to mention that Becky, once Officer Hendrix, later left the NYPD to become a psychiatrist. Hilarious, right? I laughed when I told that to Lindstrom, but he didn't see the irony. Probably because he's a psychiatrist. Anyway. I thought it was funny.
Becky and I started studying alone with each other a lot. Training together, running together, sparring together. A lot of touching involved, a lot of late nights falling asleep next to each other. And we started to talk. Really talk. It was the first time I had ever opened up to anyone like that. I felt like I could tell her anything—and I did. I told her about my alcoholic mother and all the abuse; I told her about my rapist father and how I still hoped he might show up one day and love me, tell me I wasn't a mistake; I told her about the men who had hurt me, or tried to, at least up to that point in my short, so very naive life.
She truly seemed to care. She held me when I cried, called me "sweet one," said I was beautiful and good and worthy of love. She even kissed me once, not directly on the lips but close enough that I thought it meant more than it did. I fell in love with her. I fell in love a lot in those days, usually with anyone who paid special attention to me or gave the impression of love (See: Stabler, Elliot). It was different with Becky, though. I think she did share my feelings, but she was too young, scared, ambitious. Or maybe I'm projecting.
We went out for drinks after one of our last exams, and I overdid it a little. We both did. But I was the one with the alky mother who should have known better. Somehow we ended up back at the apartment she shared with Rachel and a couple of the other recruits. There were beers and wine coolers in the fridge, so we kept drinking. And that's where it all gets fuzzy—until the following morning when we woke up in bed together, naked.
I have no memory of what we did that night, if anything. I'll admit, it looked bad with our clothes scattered all over the place and both of us under the same sheet. Becky said she didn't remember anything, either. I've always wondered if that was true. She wasn't a liar, though. No, she had the exact opposite problem.
It was sweet at first. Innocent, believe it or not. We just held each other. It was the first time anyone had ever done that for me—just held me, without wanting more. My mother wanted the parts of me she'd lost, the parts my father stole from her when she was only twenty-three years old: her youth, her hope, her freedom. Daniel wanted my body, which I had just grown into that summer before we met; which I had only just begun to feel was my own. And I gave it to him.
But Becky asked for nothing. I can still see her shy smile as she stroked my hair, as I leaned in to kiss her, as the bedroom door burst open and Rachel rushed in, asking for tampons or something . . . She could have gotten us kicked out of the academy, finding us together like that. Thankfully, she wasn't interested in being top of the class by getting the competition expelled. As far as I know, she never told anyone what she'd seen. She apologized and left before Becky or I could even say anything.
That's when Becky panicked. She begged me to get dressed and leave. No one had ever thrown me out of bed before, which hurt. But nothing hurt as badly as the way she treated me after that. She completely froze me out whenever I tried speaking to her on campus. When I finally got her alone and pleaded with her to talk to me, she accused me of harassing her, said that I was too aggressive and that I'd probably forced my way into her bed. She said I was needy and controlling. "I think you have a problem, Olivia. And if you don't take care of it now, you're going to end up an abusive alcoholic like your mother. Or something even worse, like your father."
She used every single thing I'd confided to her against me, to push me as far away as she could. I felt like I was going to die. I think I wanted to, at first. But then I got angry, and I let that anger push me through those final days of the academy. I was still riding on the fumes while I worked the five-five. I didn't exactly keep tabs on Becky, but cops talk. When she quit the NYPD to pursue her medical degree two years later, it was big news, at least with the rest of us rookies.
A few years after that, I got an unmarked package outside my door, with a copy of Rebecca's (she was back to her full name by then) dissertation inside. It was about me. She never mentioned me by name, but the title was "The Long-term Psychological Effects of Childhood Abuse on Law Enforcement Officers" and Subject #3, also known as Violet, had the exact same history as I, right down to the English professor mother and the absentee rapist father.
She had to have been writing down my stories as I fed them to her. The details were too specific, too painfully realistic, and the quotations even sounded like me:
"I'd never hurt her before, no matter how much she was hurting me by then, and I was terrified. Not just because I was capable of that same violence, but also because I was afraid of what she'd do to me. I thought she would either put me in jail or the grave—so I ran."
"He called me once. When I was fourteen. We talked for a couple of minutes before my mother picked up the other line and he hung up. Never called back. Sometimes I wonder why he waited till then—that particular age—to contact me. Maybe he was just curious. God, I hope that's all it was."
I think she quoted me verbatim. There's no way she could have remembered everything I said after all that time, without having it recorded somewhere. That's all I had been to her: a patient. An experiment. I felt so used (so STUPID) reading my personal information like that—things I had never shared with anyone else, things I had cried about when I told her. She'd accused me of being too forceful, but she was the one committing the violation.
When she resurfaced years later, during that handful of cases she consulted on with me and Elliot, I could barely stand to look at her. She pretended like none of it had ever happened, and just cozied up to Elliot, siding with him and once again acting like I pushed too hard.
I'm not going to blame my extremely late coming out on her. I knew the attraction to women was there, and it's my fault for not acting on it sooner. But I think a big part of my inability to trust people, especially women, with those intimate pieces of myself was born from that experience. From my mother too, of course. But Bec— Rebecca took something from me that I didn't get back until Amanda. I'm not sure I can forgive her for that. I'll probably never see her again anyway.
I'm afraid that I'm Alex's Rebecca. True, I haven't betrayed Alex like that; I didn't lead her on just to get what I wanted, then accuse her of coming on too strong. But if I'm the reason she can't move on, find happiness? If I'm the woman who put her off dating other women? I feel like I should call her and encourage her to meet someone else. I also feel like it's none of my business and I shouldn't chance making more trouble for Amanda and myself.
I don't know. Amanda's in bed with me now. I just want to hold her, and sleep.
. . .
