Disclaimer: I don't own Law & Order, and no infringement is intended.

A/N: Other than that drabble last month, I hadn't written a fanfic and barely any fiction at all in thirteen years. So i'm a little rusty on the mechanics. Sorry.

However, I never stopped reading fanfic. No networks up here in Canada were showing original Law & Order for years, and I pined. I really did. Then Yes TV started showing the later seasons, and I was in love all over again.

I'm trying out all the fanfic tropes I was embarrassed to try out in my 20s. This is an emotional hurt/comfort fic.

Special thanks to my beta readers: My good friend Svartormr and my beloved, His Excellency the Emir of Lanthia.

The Antidote to Hate

Chapter 1

At the Manhattan District Attorney's Office, Assistant District Attorney Connie Rubirosa was watching EADA Mike Cutter stare at the same piece of paper he'd had in front of him for the last ten minutes.

Connie had watched a case that had seemed so straightforward in the beginning as it devolved into a series of personal attacks. A man was killed in a homophobic bias murder right in front of his husband. The killer was identified by the eyewitness husband, arrested, charged, and she and Mike had secured a conviction.

Then the Hudson University Innocence Coalition took up the cause, goodness knows why. It wasn't a good choice on their part. But they managed to get the jury's guilty verdict set aside and Judge Braden ordered a new trial. Connie was angry and embarrassed. Mike had made a silly mistake, but having a case overturned? She was offended. And she could only guess how Mike felt.

Even worse, Professor Emily Ryan, head of the Innocence Coalition and Mike's mentor, repeatedly made personal digs at him, like she was trying to assert that she was still in charge of him and that he would always be a mere student.

Mike had gone on the counter-attack, going after the academic records of all the members of the Innocence Coalition and framing the new witness's testimony as bought by an overenthusiastic law student looking to increase her grade point average. Then the gloves were off, and Ryan went straight for the jugular.

They'd returned two hours ago from their dressing down – well, his, but she felt she shared his burden – in Judge Braden's chambers. After Mike had tried taking on the entire staff of the Innocence Coalition, from his mentor Emily Ryan down to the newest law student, and Professor Ryan had made him pay for it dearly by exposing his secret, that he didn't have a bachelor's degree, to the world in open court. It was a technicality, really, but the accusation was devastating. He'd barely spoken a word on the way back or since they tried to resume working.

She watched him look into nothingness, rarely even blinking, like the nothingness might stare back into him. She believed he was looking for a place to put his shame and rage, but wasn't finding anywhere to pack it away. He'd been humiliated by Judge Braden, in front of his mentors past and present, in front of Professor Ryan and in front of Jack McCoy.

She couldn't take seeing him like this any longer. "Come on, Mike," she said. "I'll buy you a drink. Or two."

He looked up, like he'd just realized where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. He said, "I… I just need more time."

Then he began to speak more quickly, "I have to figure out how I can pull together a cohesive narrative on how grade fixing at the Innocence Coalition set the pieces in place for an incentive scheme for false testimony. Lisa Klein thought she was doing the right thing by bribing Rodrigo Diaz to claim that Jon Sorrentino tried to kill his husband, so how many others were there? If we can show a pattern…"

"Woah, woah, stop right there, Mike. Is this even a good idea?" Connie asked. "We don't know if this is going to go back to trial, and we don't know if you'll be assigned the case if it does. And worse, this is what got you into trouble in the first place, and I don't know what good it would even do. What's your strategy here?"

"Screw strategy!" Mike nearly yelled. "I paid for this in blood, so I'm damned well going to use it."

Connie wasn't backing down. She narrowed her eyes at him. "Mike, I respect you. I really do. You're brilliant, skilled tactically, and you pull victories out of the depths more than anyone else." She paused. "But that is, without a doubt, the worst strategy I've ever heard of."

The anger just seemed to blow away from Mike, and he seemed smaller than before, deflated. "I just need more time… another hour… please. Then I'll take you up on your offer. It'll probably be good for me to get away from this for a bit."

Connie nodded.

But three hours later she was questioning the wisdom of her suggestion.

"I just raked a law student over the coals for having poor judgment."

Mike was already drunk, Connie thought as she saw him slide another double down his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing once just below his stubble-covered chin. They'd been out for drinks countless times before, but she'd never seen him have this many, go this far.

She said, "Well, maybe you should never have gone after the clinic."

"I didn't have a choice. Their witness was lying."

She sighed inwardly. Pushing boundaries seemed to be how he lived his life.

"And you had a chance to show up your mentor," Connie said.

"That had nothing to do with it," Mike said, but Connie knew that wasn't true.

"Really? Mike."

Mike didn't say anything for a few minutes, but he looked at her like some of what she'd said had finally reached him. He didn't look comfortable. Then he lowered his eyes and stared at the table in front of her. She tilted her head, tried to reach his eyes, but he was avoiding them.

"Jack's gonna fire me," he said.

"You're being paranoid," Connie said, partly believing it and partly sharing the same fear that was clearly consuming Mike.

He shot back, "I'd fire me."

Connie was surprised at that remark. She didn't think he realized he'd done anything wrong here. To her the mistake of a 21-year-old was forgivable, but the mistakes a 46-year-old kept making, well, he should know better. She just didn't think he did.

"Who knows if they'll let me keep my license?" He said.

That comment hurt her heart in a way that felt almost physically painful. She knew how much Mike Cutter loved the practice of law. His thirst for justice was one of the qualities she admired the most about him.

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it, Mike," Connie said. And she meant it, he was her friend and she would cross that bridge with him, if worst came to worst.

But they had more immediate concerns. Connie didn't know how she was going to get him out of the bar and into something resembling a reasonable state even by Monday. Were those drinks seven and eight? He'd need tomorrow to recover physically, but what about the rest? Would he be ready to fight for the thing that was most important to him by the time Monday arrived?

She was worried about him. Probably not the casual worry of one coworker for another. Maybe the deep concern of one friend for another. Maybe even something deeper, touching a part of her closer to her heart.

"Mike, we've got to get home." She stood. "Come on. I've got to get you home and into bed." Oh no, she thought. That didn't come out as she'd intended.

Mike looked at her, not as intensely as she expected, eyes dulled by liquor, and wagged his eyebrows up and down as he said, "So you want to get me into bed."

She must have rolled her large eyes long enough for even Mike in his current state to see her. He chuckled.

But then he shook his head and tapped his temple. "I'm not leaving until my brain is tabula rasa."

Connie sighed. "You've got prep you have to do this weekend. I need you in good shape. We're already behind the 8-ball… but I don't need to tell you that. You have to be ready to fight." She leaned in a little more, looked straight at him, and said, "I need you to be ready. This is really important to me, too."

"I know…" He looked up at her and met her eyes, his face a mixture of fear and sadness. "I know I always look like this balls to the wall kind of guy, but I'm worried. What am I gonna do if I can't be a lawyer?"

Connie put a hand on his arm. "You've got options, Mike." That was all the comfort she had for him. "Okay, time to go."

He looked at her for a long time, a mix of emotions playing out on his lips, his eyes, his whole face. A mixture of increasing blood alcohol levels, fatigue, and emotion combined to make him slur a bit. "I can't. There're people here, they've got whiskey, they've got almost everything I need," he said.

"They're not going to serve you anymore. I've paid. I'm getting you out of here." She hooked her hand behind his elbow and guided him up and out of the pub. At the curb she thrust her hand into the air and then opened the door of the first cab that pulled to the curb. She gestured for Mike to get in.

He sat down, but he looked up at her with a look that she'd never seen before from him. If she didn't know him better, know that he was utterly fearless, she'd have thought it was terror.

She relented. He was her friend and he needed her help. "Move over," she said. And she slid into the cab next to him.

The cabbie said, "Where to?" Connie gestured to Mike, then to the driver. He gave his address and they pulled away from the curb. They rode in silence. He stared out the window the entire time, seemingly lost in his own dark thoughts. She wanted to drag him out of that place but she couldn't think of what to say that would make any of this situation better. Eventually his head began to bob and he rested it against the window and closed his eyes. He looked almost peaceful in sleep.

They arrived and Connie quickly paid, then walked around and opened the door. "Mike, you're home." He opened his eyes and looked at her, and she gently put her hand under his elbow once again and guided him out.

"Do you want me to wait?" the cab driver asked.

"No, thanks," she said.

They reached the door, and Mike rummaged around in his pockets for his keys, spilling them out onto the sidewalk. Connie bent over and picked them up for him. He waved them near the RFID sensor and she pushed the door open but let him go first. He wasn't very steady on his feet so she took his elbow again, and they walked into the elevator linked that way.

Mike pressed an elevator button – the wrong one it turned out, so he tried another – and they began to ascend. His head dipped then rose up and swung around to look at her. He tilted his head and said, "Are you staying over?"

She rolled her eyes again. "I'm just going to stay until I know you're okay."

"I'm never okay," he said with a goofy smile that dropped when he heard his own words. It returned when he said, "So I guess you'll be staying forever. I'm so lucky."

She felt the corners of her mouth curl up into a smile of their own accord; she couldn't stop it. While she was concerned for her friend, seeing what he was like when he had lost all of his filters and most of his intellect was amusing.

"I love your smile," he said in a sort of sing-song way that only the inebriated can speak in without self-awareness. "I don't get to see enough of it."

The doors opened and she let that one pass without comment. She knew how he felt about her. He was usually respectful enough to keep the things that run through his head to himself. There were times she knew exactly what he was thinking, but he never made her feel uncomfortable. Almost never. That awkward conversation during witness prep for the Marcus Woll case was an exception. They got through that, though, and had found it wasn't as hard as she expected for them to work together again.

He did manage to find the correct key to open his door and they went inside. Mike took off his coat and hung it on a hook by the door, where it immediately fell to the floor. She picked it up and put it on the hook properly.

Mike shuffled along the floor to his refrigerator, opened it, then closed it. He reached his hand up into a cupboard above the fridge and pulled out a bottle of scotch. Connie walked over and put her hand on top of his, preventing him from opening the stopper.

"Mike, no. You've had enough. Go to bed."

"Make me," he said.

She felt a flush of anger, but he quickly smiled in acquiescence, a mischievous smile, and her anger evaporated. And her hand was still on his.

"You're so beautiful when you're angry," he said. "And when you're not."

Drunk or not, there was only so much he could say before he couldn't take it back in the sober light of dawn.

"Mike…"

"I know, I know. I'd never have a chance with someone like you. But I can't change these things inside me. I can't just feel differently."

Now Connie began to feel a little bit scared. It's one thing to make a few off-hand comments when you've had to much to drink, but it's quite another to come back from too much honesty.

She'd always felt a spark between them. But so often when she'd felt something building between them he'd turned around and done something to hurt her, breaking her trust. She didn't feel exactly the same way about him as he felt about her, but there was something there.

As she looked at him, thinking about how their relationship might go forward and what the consequences would be, she saw Mike close his eyes and start to lean away from the counter.

"Woah, Mike," she said as she reached out to grab him. "You are really wasted, so we've got to—"

She didn't get to finish that sentence because, as soon as his eyes snapped open and he steadied himself with her help, suddenly his lips were on hers and his arms held her against him, one at the small of her back and one cradling her head.

At first she thought this was maybe not so bad, that it was kind of exciting and not just from it being a really terrible idea. Then she realized something was off. Really off.

She turned her head and said, "Mike… Mike."

He licked along her jawline and then started kissing down her neck. "What?" he mumbled out next to the crook of her neck.

She put her hands in between them and gently pushed him away. "That was… you're too… that just wasn't very good."

"What?" he said.

"Drunk people are terrible kissers, and you are no exception," she said.

"You have got to be kidding me!" he said, exasperated.

Connie leveled a no-nonsense look at him and said, "I mean it. I don't want to hurt you, but this isn't happening, not the least of which because you are an uncoordinated mess."

A look of bewilderment on his face, he started to speak. "I just think you—"

Connie cut him off. "I don't want to talk about this. Go to bed and I'll bring you some water."

He tilted his head, then walked away, to his bedroom. She was sure he was undressing, changing into nightclothes, but she didn't think he left the door open intentionally. And she was mostly sure she wasn't curious at all about what his bare thighs looked like, or his back as he pulled on a T-shirt.

She found the cupboard with the glasses, ran the water from the kitchen tap until it was cold, and filled a large glass nearly to the top.

"Are you finished changing? I've got your water," she shouted in the direction of his bedroom.

"Yeah, it's safe," he called back.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed in a T-shirt and shorts. His head was in his hands.

Connie asked, "Is the room spinning a bit?"

"Yeah, just a bit," Mike admitted.

"Here," she said. She placed the glass of water on his bedside table. Then she motioned for him to put his legs up on the bed. He complied, tucking his legs under the covers, but sitting propped up against the headboard. She turned on his bedside lamp and turned off the overhead light. Then she sat down near the foot of the bed.

Mike looked sad as he as asked, "Would it really be so bad, being with me?"

"Mike, stop. Even if I wanted to, and I am not saying I do, you are one hundred percent too drunk to consent. It's not… ethical."

"If I were sober and you propositioned me, what do you think I'd say? If it helps, I've run that scenario through my head a few times," he said with a goofy smirk.

But Connie was more serious in her reply. "I can't know what you'd say. I know what you'd want to say, but I can't know that you won't try to slap me with an indictment on a one-thirty thirty charge in the morning."

Now he was serious. "This doesn't meet the criteria. As we both know the law as it stands is awful, and voluntary intoxication doesn't equal mental incapacity as it applies to sexual consent."

He was either recovering, or he was surprisingly good at arguing points of law while absolutely smashed. And Connie was willing to play.

She said, "You might try to argue that I coerced you or tricked you into drinking too much."

He gave her the same piercing look he gave to someone giving testimony on the stand as he said, "We can find witnesses to the fact that I voluntarily consumed the drinks, and even enthusiastically ordered more of my own volition. Multiple times."

She softened her tone. "So then we're just back to the ethical issue of consent."

"Oh come on Connie! You know I'd say yes. You know I'd always say yes to you, without exception."

"I really don't think that's how our relationship has worked so far."

Having no argument to counter that, he changed tactics. He said, "I think the utilitarian argument would be that it would be unethical to not kiss me right now. You want to maximize the happiness of those around you and yourself, right?"

"You're absolutely obnoxious when you're drunk. Also, this sophomoric argument about the utilitarian perspective falls apart when we look at our current situation, where you – as we saw from that very substandard, sloppy drunk kiss – have lost the ability to increase my happiness this evening, in part because I'm sure you've lost the ability to provide a mutually satisfying encounter." Those last words she punctuated with her near-deadly raised eyebrows.

"Ouch, that one hurt," he said with a mock-wounded expression that quickly evolved to a broad smile. "And now you won't allow me to defend myself with a proffer of evidence."

She smiled, but then grew serious. "No, Mike. I'm sorry. You'll be yourself again in the morning. We can talk about this then if you want to."

She reached up and turned his bedside light off. He pulled the covers up and laid down. She closed the door behind her.

Suddenly she was crushingly tired, like the weight of everything had been suspended above her all day, but now came to rest on her shoulders. She went around and turned most of the lights off in Mike's place, then decided to sleep on the couch. She'd have better luck getting a cab in the morning anyway.

She pulled up a throw blanket he had on one arm of the couch and laid her head down on the other, and was almost instantly asleep.