A/N: What can I say, I was still in a spooky mood after Halloween ended. So I wrote this. It was inspired by my binge of the Scream movies, if that tells you anything. I'm tempted to say it's almost an AU of the Devilishverse, but it's referenced in the third long installment, so nope, it's Devilishcanon. Whether or not I'll build on it anymore beyond this one-shot remains to be seen. TRIGGER WARNING! Brief flashbacks/allusions to sexual assault. TRIGGER WARNING! I toyed with a couple of details so they align with season 21 canon, too. Please read & review. Feeling a little lonely here in Rolivia Land.
Special thanks to Amilyn for helping me work out some of the logistics for this one. And like last time, the larger version of the cover art can be viewed on my DeviantArt page (crystallinejen).
"Look, I don't know who the fuck this is, but if you don't stop calling me, I'm going to trace your number, send some unis to kick your door in, and arrest your sorry ass for harassing a police officer. This thing you're doing right now? The funny little breath on the other end of the line, the silence? It's a Class A misdemeanor. You could go to jail for a year. More, if it's not your first offense. And believe me, sweetheart, I've got the juice to make it happen. So, if you want to keep testing me, fine. But don't say I didn't warn you."
Olivia held her breath. Some of that had been an exaggeration. Posturing for the voice—or lack of one—coming through her cell phone. Phone harassment was a real crime and the penalty would be stiffer for this dumb punk, since he had chosen an NYPD captain as his target. She could probably even play it up in court if she wanted to: claim severe emotional distress, interference with police procedure, stalking, or any number of additional charges her former detective, now ADA Dominick Carisi, recommended.
But mostly, she just wanted the calls to stop. At first, she'd assumed they were a childish prank, especially when she heard the faint giggling that lilted up from the speaker, like the sound of her children playing hide and seek while she pretended not to be able to see the feet under the curtains or the curly head peeping out of the closet. Only this child sounded as if it were at the bottom of a well. That was the third or fourth call. The next time she heard the giggling, days later, it was anything but childlike. It had reminded her of the canned laughter of a circus clown, tinny and slightly maniacal. Olivia Benson was not frightened of clowns in the least, but that laugh had sent chills down her spine.
The silence was almost as bad. No, worse, actually. Without a voice attached to the caller, she could imagine anyone on the other end. And she had. None of the options were good, and many were downright implausible. They ran the gamut from disgruntled family member of a perp to one of Rob Miller's cronies, trying to intimidate her on behalf of their imprisoned comrade. Those were just the ones she was willing to admit she'd considered.
Then there were the others. They materialized in her mind like the ghosts they were—unbidden, shapeless, terrifying. The first was her mother. She was the silence, reaching out from beyond the grave, the quietest of places. When Olivia was a child, she'd often caught her mother gazing at her with a hard look and no explanation, just that insufferable quiet which she now recognized as disdain. Later, in college and during the long, lonely nights as a recruit, then a uni and—finally, finally—a full-fledged but deeply green detective, she always knew when Serena had drunk-dialed her because there would be an extensive pause on the line before the woman slurred, "'Livia?" (Always a question, as if surprised by her own impulse to contact her only daughter.)
After the first call about a week ago, Olivia had found herself waiting to hear her name in that confused mutter she still remembered like it was yesterday. She could practically smell the booze through the phone. So, when the breathing had started the next time, low and raspy through the Bluetooth in her car, as if the caller were mildly asthmatic, she had been so taken aback, she almost swerved off the road. Thank God the kids hadn't been with her then.
Neither had Amanda, who knew nothing of these recurring exchanges. Olivia couldn't tell her about them, not once she'd heard the horrible wheezing. The detective already watched her like a sapphire-eyed hawk, ready to swoop in at the least sign of distress. It was sweet and very much appreciated, but it also made Olivia feel fragile and tentative—the crystal vase with a hairline fracture gradually inching up the back—two things that a cop couldn't afford to be. If she told Amanda who the breath belonged to, the blonde would think she was cracking up entirely. Hell, maybe she was.
It was Lewis—the breathing. Six years he'd been dead and buried, six years since that day in the granary when he violated her mind, as well as her body (he took everything but her life while she stood there, chained to that goddamned table), but God help her, it was him.
The moment she heard the heavy exhalation coming through the speakers, she felt the warmth of his breath against her ear, felt its moisture creeping along her neck, making her shudder with revulsion. "Knew I could get you wet," he'd murmured at some point during their initial rendezvous, though she couldn't remember if it was in her apartment, the Mayers' house, or the beach house. She just remembered that he had been rock hard and his hands were hurting her while he said it. She had cried and begged him to stop, she thought. The rest was mercifully lost to her, forever . . .
Because the mind was a funny thing. It could give or take, of its own volition. Sometimes it protected you from the horrors of reality, but other times it brought your worst nightmares to life in such vivid detail, you could no longer differentiate between the real and the imagined.
Olivia had teetered on the brink as she listened to the breathing, but that first high-pitched, clownish giggle brought her back. Creepy as it was, that sound didn't come from Lewis. His laugh had been throatier, more of a fond little chuckle, as if watching her struggle against her body's natural responses was nothing short of darling. (That memory awakened yet another: his hands down her pants, fondling the lacy crotch of her underwear. She'd worn the skimpy briefs because Brian was supposed to stop by that evening, but of course ol' Billy boy insisted they were meant for him. Just as he insisted that her barely conscious reaction to the stimulation was all for him. "So sweet," he kept crooning, while she—)
It ended there, and she didn't pursue the memory any further. How could she, with that demented giggling in her ears? She tried not to name it, not to impart it supernatural powers as she had the silence and the breath, but it came nonetheless—
(just like you did for Lewis)
The laughter belonged to Calvin and Amelia, their youthful, malicious humor unhindered by death. They had delighted in the pain and degradation they caused others, Olivia most of all. Now, hell had loosed them on her again, to continue the torment they failed to complete while on earth. What would it cost her this time: her life or just her sanity?
That's why she couldn't tell Amanda about the phone calls. And though she currently sat behind her desk at the One-Six, her cell displaying "No Caller ID" on the screen for the third time in the past fifteen minutes, she couldn't make good on her threat to trace the call, either. She shouldn't even be at work this late at night, but when the power went out, taking the landlines and computers with it, someone had needed to stay after and man the fort. With Amanda home caring for a trio of strep-throat patients, and Fin overnighting in Jersey for a case, the responsibility had fallen to the squad captain and Officer Azar-Tamin. And now that Kat was probably sprawled out on her sofa, sawing tremendous, blissful logs—the state she had been in at her desk when Olivia discovered the young woman sound asleep, exhausted from pulling a double, and told her unequivocally to go home—it was down to just the captain.
Still no lights. Still a thunderstorm raging outside like Godzilla on a rampage through the city. And still no TARU to track the son of a bitch who was panting at her over the phone. An occasional uni would wander into the squadroom, flashlight bobbing across the empty desks and chairs and blinding her when the damn kid shined it into her office: just stopping by for an update on the status of the blockwide power outage, "Captain Benson, ma'am." As if she couldn't just look past the glare of her slowly dying laptop screen and see that she was immersed in total darkness. But she would thank Jimmy or Peyton or Andy, sending them on their merry patrolling way, and shaking her head as she watched the light wink out by the stairwell.
It was comforting to know there were several floors of officers on duty below her, but that didn't make the desolation or the pitch black on this floor any less eerie. She had already been jumping at every clap of thunder that rattled her office windows, and that was before the lights began to flicker and eventually fizzled out. Before the phone began ringing every five minutes, dredging up ghosts and demons she thought long since buried.
As she released the air she'd been holding in her lungs, a flash of lightning bathed her office and the abandoned squadroom in stark white light. It played tricks on her eyes, turning inanimate objects into living, breathing things: the ergonomic desk chairs became men in dark clothing, crouched low as they prowled closer, closer; her long trench coat and shoulder bag hanging on the coat tree were the outline of a tall, sinister stranger; the reflections in the interior windows were ghastly pale faces, hundreds of them, and each one looking to her, waiting. She hadn't felt so exposed to the darkness, so watched by it, since that night in the Catskills, sitting in front of the huge picture window in Meredith's den. To later learn that Orion had been out there, watching and listening, then inside, watching and listening, still chilled her to the bone.
"I'm hanging up now," Olivia said loudly, overcompensating for the empty room and lack of activity around her. She didn't want this prick to know she was alone and deeply unsettled. She only raised her voice when it was all she had left to control. "Don't call me anymore."
Her thumb hovered above the red button, and if she hadn't hesitated for that one half-second, she might not have heard it. She might have gone about her business, unaware that somewhere out there—in the night, in the dark, in the city that never slept but was host to countless nightmares—someone waited, watched, plotted . . .
"Do you want to die tonight, Captain Benson?" asked the voice on the other end of the line. It was little more than a whisper, absent any distinguishing characteristics. It could have been male or female, young or old. Human or not.
For one fleeting moment, it sounded like her brother, Simon Marsden. Poor dead Simon, who had overdosed a year ago, almost to the day. Olivia had done an exhaustive search for friends and family to attend the modest funeral she'd arranged for him—everything from the flowers to the song choice was generic, because she had no idea what he liked—but in the end, she and Amanda were the only ones standing graveside. His own children declined the invitation, at their mother's behest. It was a cold and lonesome burial, the first of the autumn leaves starting to fall, gathering in wet clumps on the grass and sticking to the coffin as it was lowered into the earth. (Had he wanted to be buried? Maybe, like Olivia, he would have preferred cremation. She just didn't know.)
Back then, she was still distancing herself from Amanda, literally and figuratively, and she had stood apart from her detective, feeling every bit as alone as she had at her mother's funeral, and shivering in the hazy October drizzle—just like she shivered now.
"Excuse me?" she asked, her pitch much too high. A crack of thunder made the floor shudder beneath her feet, the picture frames on her desk and the walls vibrating in protest. She stifled a gasp, nearly dropping the phone.
"I'm right outside. Come play with me, Olivia. Or I can come in to you . . . "
Olivia pushed up from the desk so abruptly her chair rolled backwards, colliding with the file cabinet behind her. The framed photo of Ruth Bader Ginsburg collapsed face down on the windowsill and several manila folders spilled their contents onto the floor in an avalanche of horrific abuse and violent crimes. Sidestepping the mess, Olivia grabbed the cord to the Venetian blinds and yanked them up with a loud zip.
"Okay, motherfucker, where are you then?" She squinted at the dark windowpane, seeing nothing besides her own reflection gazing back, cast in a sickly glow by the phone at her ear. The lenses of her glasses flashed silver, turning her eyes into ghoulish headlights. She snatched off the frames and peered harder at the glass. At nothing.
"Can't you see me? I'm right here. I'm so clo—"
Lightning split the sky, oversaturating the outside world in brightness and interfering with the call signal. It crackled like grease in a hot pan, briefly morphing the caller's voice to a slow, choppy rasp. I'm so-o-o clo-o-o-se . . .
"Bullshit. I don't see any—"
But she did see someone. A hooded figure on the corner, looking up at her window through the steady sheet of rain that clashed against the glass like fists pounding to be let in. The dim light of a cellular phone was visible in the figure's hand, creating a strange halo inside the hood. Olivia tracked its progress as far as she could—this dark angel in the driving rain—but it crossed the street and disappeared from view. Headed towards the steps to the precinct.
"What's wrong, Captain? You sound like you saw a ghost."
"Fuck you, you piece of shit," Olivia snapped, tearing the phone away from her ear. This time she jabbed the end call button as the whisper became a scream:
"HANG UP ON ME, AND I'LL CUT YOUR—"
Whirling back around to face her desk, she threw open the top drawer and brought out her service weapon, placing it resolutely atop a stack of paperwork. She doubted it would be necessary—the fucker was probably in another borough altogether, another state even, and there was plenty of security downstairs, regardless of whether the metal detectors and x-ray conveyor belts were down—but just in case. And after a short internal debate (Do you want to die tonight, Captain Benson?), she picked up the Glock and released it from the automatic lock on the holster.
When the phone rang again, she kept the gun in hand and punched at the decline button with her middle finger. Within seconds, another call came through. Then another, and another—No Caller ID, Unknown, (Mom?), No Caller ID, (Lewis?), Unknown, No Caller ID, (Come play with me, Olivia) . . .
Each time, Olivia jabbed at the screen, focusing more of her anger on the small red dot until finally she let out a cry of frustration and smashed down on the green. "I told you to stop calling me, you fucking asshole. And if you come anywhere near me, I swear to God, I will not hesitate to put a bullet in you."
"Liv? Honey, what did you— I can barely hear— Can you— "
Before the static drowned Amanda out, she sounded confused and far away. Olivia held her cell at arm's length for a moment, squinting at the screen. She had no idea where her glasses ended up after she'd whipped them off at the window, but she managed to bring the large font into focus enough to see that it did indeed read "Amanda," not "No Caller ID," as she first believed. (Jesus Christ, she really was cracking up.)
"Amanda? Hello?" Olivia brought the phone back to her ear, pressing the other side closed against her shoulder. "Sweetie, I can't hear you." She glanced out at the big, empty squadroom beyond the safety of her smaller, enclosed office. Reception was a bit dodgy within the precinct walls at times—usually in the interrogation room, but occasionally in her office as well. It tended to improve near the hallway, particularly by the elevators. "I think the storm's screwing with the signal. Hang on."
Taking a few hesitant steps towards the doorway, she strained to make out her girlfriend's voice on the line, but all she heard was an indistinct electronic mumbling, like a radio station caught between frequencies. She held her breath again, walked the last few paces to the door, then stepped outside of it, feeling as if she were crossing a barrier clearly marked by warning signs. Danger Landmines! Caution Hazardous Cliff! Beware, I'll Cut Your—
"Amanda?"
" . . . this damn storm. Are you—"
Olivia crept past the rows of tandem desks that designated the detectives workstation. "Hey, sweetie, hang up and try calling me back, okay? Hello?"
"—a minute."
"Shit," Olivia hissed. She gazed apprehensively at the deserted entrance to the squadroom, half expecting the hooded figure to appear there in another brilliant flash of lightning. But when the flash did come, the entrance was clear. She inched towards the help desk, hanging back at the counter to peer into the hall. Into deep, dark nothing. Had she said shit? She meant fuck.
She was contemplating moving into the hallway, where the absence of windows made the darkness whole and tangible—a solid thing you could reach out and touch, a thing that could touch you back—when the call dropped and her phone bleated out a low battery alert. "Fuck!" she whispered aloud.
The thunder echoed her sentiment, roaring with such vengeance that the bulletproof glass partitions lining the room trembled in their frames. Olivia could relate, as she stood there, honest-to-God quaking in her boots. She turned back to the office, planning to grab her coat, purse, and keys, and close up shop for the evening—no one was getting through in this storm anyway, and if she asked for an escort to the parking garage, she could use the excuse of needing someone to carry the umbrella—but another noise stopped her cold. This one was small, innocuous. A squeak she had barely heard above the rain drumming on the roof. She almost convinced herself she'd imagined it, until she heard it a second time, much closer than the first. It sounded like a rusty old doorknob being turned slowly back and forth. By whom, or what, was the question.
"Kat?" she asked hopefully of the darkness. It would be like the overzealous young woman to ignore an order and return to work after a catnap in one of the squad cars. Olivia would chew her out for it later, but right now she was thankful for the officer's insubordination, if it meant she—
It wasn't Katriona, though. Her tread was lighter and lengthier. These footsteps were crisp, clacking on the precinct flooring with more force than the flat-soled loafers Kat favored. They weren't the creaky rubber soles of a uni, either; those kids always sounded as wet underfoot as they were behind the ears. And their burdensome duty belts inevitably gave them away. This person was traveling light.
"Hello?" Olivia tried again, tucking her useless cell phone into her back pocket. She brought her left hand up to support her grip on the gun, aiming it at the floor. Little by little, she had begun to edge along the wall, until it opened onto the corridor outside the interrogation rooms. "Okay, whoever's out there, you need to answer me right now," she called, backing around the corner. She thought about slipping into interrogation one, but she couldn't even see the door. The last time she'd fumbled around in the dark like this was that night in the Catskills, careening through the woods, trying to outrun that psychopath Orion. Back then, Olivia promised herself she'd never let another man get the jump on her—not again.
Here was good. She would have a mostly clear view of anyone who approached her office, but they wouldn't know her position. And no one could sneak up on her from behind, because it was a dead-end.
No sooner had she reached the conclusion than she sensed movement from across the room. Coming from that direction meant whoever lurked in the dark had arrived via the stairwell. So, she was dealing with a human after all, not some supernatural entity that could manifest itself like an unwanted thought, like a bad dream.
Instinctually, she raised her weapon from feet to center mass. It was muscle memory now, just like pulling the trigger would be. More than likely, she could hit a target—or at least somewhere in its general area—blind, which was exactly how she felt, staring straight ahead yet seeing nothing. After a while, you learned to aim with more than just your eyes. And when you had been trapped in a room with a monster, you learned to estimate his proximity, how much of the space he took up around him, how little of it you were afforded, how hard you would have to fight to survive . . .
This monster was several feet away by the media room, but approaching swiftly, weaving around the desks as if the path were perfectly lit. It was the dark angel. And with only a dim screen light to illuminate him from the waist up, he appeared to float towards Olivia, partially disembodied and hissing something below his breath. (Do you want to die tonight, Captain Benson?) She couldn't see a face behind the low hood, just more darkness.
Human, she told herself, only human. And as she slid from the shadows, pointing her gun directly to the back of the hooded head that peered into her office, she said softly, "One move, lights out."
She could do it. She would do it, if given no other choice.
"Liv? It's me." Amanda's voice quavered, along with the hands she raised in surrender. The screen of her iPhone was still active, and over her shoulder, it displayed Olivia's name in the glaring white text of an outgoing call. "What's going on?"
Suddenly, the gun felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. Meanwhile, Olivia's legs had no substance at all. She let the Glock drop to waist-level, almost losing her grip on it entirely, and put a hand out to steady herself against a nearby desk before she could drop as well.
"Jesus Christ, Amanda," she said, bending over until her forehead almost touched desktop. She clutched at her chest, unable to catch a full breath. Her knees wouldn't hold, and she went down on her haunches, this time pressing her forehead against the front of the desk. "Jesus Christ, I almost shot you."
"But you didn't. You didn't," Amanda said, stroking Olivia's hair and repeating the assurance over and over.
Olivia was vaguely aware of the sensation—of Amanda squatting down beside her—but felt like it was happening to someone else, an illusion heightened by the dark. The only thing she knew with certainty was the steel in her hand and the fact that she'd been ready to use it on the woman she loved. It jittered on the floor when Olivia laid it aside, not trusting her shaky grip, and pushed it as far away as possible.
"Why the hell didn't you answer me?" she demanded, turning with such vehemence that Amanda drew back for a moment. "I called out to you. Why didn't you respond?"
"I— I'm sorry. I must not have heard you through this damn thing." Amanda pushed back the glistening hood of her black raincoat, revealing damp bangs and the wet, scraggly ends of an otherwise dry ponytail. "I was tryin' to get through to you on my cell to let you know I was coming, see?"
She held up her phone as proof, showing the Recents list with "Liv" at the top and a telephone icon with an outward-pointing arrow beside it. "I had my other ear covered so I could hear you over the—"
On cue, thunder exploded overhead, making them both jump.
"Over that," Amanda finished. She turned her phone around and switched on the flashlight, placing it on the desk above them so the beam shot upwards. A beacon of glorious light. She cast a concerned look back to Olivia and cupped a hand to her knee, squeezing. "I'm sorry, darlin'. I was trying not to scare you."
That was what it had come to, then. Olivia, the weak, cowering girlfriend; Amanda, the protector who had to be careful not to upset the delicate balance. So much for fearlessness. So much for badass Captain Benson.
She tilted her head back and let it fall forward against the desk with a thud. She would have done it a second time, if Amanda's palm hadn't intervened, cushioning the blow. "Stop that," said the detective, taking Olivia by the shoulders and forcing her to turn away from the self-imposed purgatory. "You're scaring me now, Liv. What's wrong? Did you have a flashback?"
"No." Olivia sank to the floor, unable to sustain her crouching posture without the desk to hold onto. She rested her back against the wood paneling instead and brought her knees up, still wanting to curl into a protective ball. Long ago, she'd learned to ignore the flight response—probably the first time her mother had screamed at her for no apparent reason, bloodshot eyes filled with hatred; once you were able to face down your own drunken mother, not much else fazed you—but that didn't mean the impulse was gone completely. Just dull from years of disuse. "Not a flashback."
"What then? A night terror?" Amanda was grasping at straws, her brow etched with worry as she searched Olivia's features.
For a moment, looking into the blonde's troubled, pretty face, Olivia had the urge to tell her to run. To get as far away from the darkness that followed Olivia, doggedly as a shadow, as she could. But that would mean losing Amanda forever—and that was not a thought Olivia could abide. She sought out Amanda's hand, pulling it to her chest and warming it between her palms.
"No, I wasn't asleep. It wasn't my imagination," she said firmly, trying to convince herself as much as her detective.
"Then what? Tell me." Amanda sounded just as resolute, and when she nudged Olivia's chin up, her blue eyes were fierce, even in the low lighting. "I ain't goin' anywhere until you do."
Olivia didn't doubt it for a second. Months ago she had sat just like this on the bathroom floor, back to a huge jacuzzi tub, and spilled her guts to Amanda, revealing secrets she hadn't planned to tell anyone, ever. It hadn't frightened the younger woman away. In fact, it had solidified her as Olivia's closest confidant and the one person in the world to whom she could say anything.
Licking her lips, Olivia began tentatively, "I got some calls."
"Calls? What, like, phone calls?"
"Mm-hmm. But these were . . . bad." Olivia shut her eyes, shook her head. It already felt like she had overreacted. How could she possibly explain the terror of just listening to someone breathe over the phone? "I'm sure they were just meant to frighten me. Guess it worked."
"What did they say?"
Olivia opened her eyes and gazed askance at Amanda, who still crouched in those high-heeled boots with the ease of an owl on its perch, blonde head tilted inquiringly. "Nothing," she said, a faint smirk on her lips. "Not at first, anyway. Just some heavy breathing and this— this laugh. It was fucking creepy. But tonight there were . . . threats."
"Threats."
"'Do you want to die tonight, Captain Benson?'" Olivia quoted in a thin, colorless tone. "'Come play with me . . . . Hang up on me, and I'll cut your—'" She made a vague gesture with her hand, leaving the rest up to imagination. The possibilities were endless, really.
"Jesus, Liv. Fucking hell." Amanda finally dropped the rest of the way to her knees and gathered Olivia into a painfully tight hug. She pushed back to arm's length a moment later. "Wait, the threats started tonight? How long has this been going on?"
Sharp as a goddamn tack.
"I'm not sure." Olivia glanced away, only for Amanda to cup her by the face and maintain the eye contact she was trying to avoid. "Maybe a week or so."
"Liv."
"I didn't want to worry you. It's probably some asshole who wants to get back at me for locking him up. Or the asshole's girlfriend. Or his family. I'm not exactly Miss Popularity with the criminal element in this city, in case you missed it, Detective."
Amanda didn't smile at the joke. "It's not funny," she said, shoving to her feet and holding a hand out to Olivia. "Those are direct threats against a high-ranking police officer, not to mention my captain and my girlfriend. That's not something I take lightly, and neither should you. C'mon."
"Where are we going?" Olivia asked, taking the fingers Amanda wiggled at her and allowing herself to be hauled upright.
"TARU. We're gonna find out who the fucker is that thinks he can mess with my girl, and then I'm gonna have a little chat with him about Penal Law 240.30 and whatnot." Amanda glanced back, tugging on Olivia's hand when she met with resistance.
"Um, Amanda, my love?" Olivia pointed at the ceiling and the overhead lights that were still noticeably extinguished. "Forgetting something?"
"Oh." Amanda frowned up at the electrical glitch, then shrugged it off. Minor detail. "Well, first thing tomorrow morning, then. Or whenever the power's back up. Right now, you're coming home with me. You can't stay here alone. Speaking of."
She picked up her cell phone and gave the squadroom a sweep with the flashlight. (My beautiful lighthouse in the storm, Olivia thought, fleetingly.) "Where the hell is Tamin?"
"Sent her home."
"And she went?" Amanda asked, incredulous. "Just left you here by yourself? Guess I'll be having a talk with her, too."
Olivia enjoyed the blonde's overprotective side—was quite charmed by it, actually—but there came a point when she had to draw a line, and they had reached it. "I'm a big girl, Amanda. I don't need Officer Tamin to hold my hand. Or anyone else, for that matter."
Realizing her mistake almost immediately, she interlocked fingers with Amanda and added, "Except you. You can always hold my hand."
They shared a brief smile in the harsh light from the phone, until a thought occurred to Olivia. "Where the hell are the kids?" she asked abruptly, looking Amanda up and down as if she might be hiding their strep-ridden children under her loose-fitting raincoat. It did appear somewhat lumpier than usual under there.
"Left 'em at home. Figured they'd be okay by themselves for a bit. They're big kids, they don't need anyone holding their hand."
"Amanda!" Olivia knew it was a fib (at least it better be), but her voice rose in mild alarm and she pulled back on the detective's hand this time. "Be serious. If it turns out some freak does have it in for me, we need to keep an extra close eye on them."
"I know." Amanda slipped an arm around Olivia's waist, guiding her towards the office to gather any personal items and to lock up. She knew the routine almost as well as Olivia herself; she was already taking down the trench and bag hanging on the coat tree. "I just wanted you to see how ridiculous it sounded. They're safe, I left them with Uncle Sonny. He's probably on his seventh or eighth bedtime story by now."
Olivia turned around when Amanda held up her trench coat, helping her into the leather sleeves. "Sonny? You called him all the way across town just to watch the kids?" she asked, lifting her hair from under the coat collar and letting it fall back into place. "In this weather?"
"Nah. Well . . . sort of? He called to check in. Said the power was out over here. Couldn't get anything done in the office, so he was on his way home, and I—" Catching a glimpse of Olivia's upraised eyebrow, Amanda nibbled at her bottom lip and shrugged. "I asked him to stop by. I didn't like the idea of you sittin' over here in the dark, so I was bringing you these."
She handed over Olivia's bag and unsnapped the front of her raincoat, revealing the huge beach bag she lugged around whenever she was going to be away from home for a while. Before they had moved in together, she'd used it as an overnight bag whenever she spent the night at Olivia's apartment. Olivia liked to tease that she could probably stuff Amanda herself into that bag, it was so big. Now, it was filled with the white pillar candles they kept in the cabinet above the fridge—for special occasions such as dinner parties, romantic evenings, and the city's notorious blackouts.
Amanda passed one of the candles to Olivia. From a pocket inside the tote, she withdrew the six shooter keychain Olivia had given to her as a Valentine's Day gift and flicked on the lighter inside its muzzle. "'Cause you really light my fire, little darlin'," she said, igniting the candle wick, then blowing out the flame at the tip of the tiny gun.
"Smooth," said Olivia, smirking as she held the candle aside and stepped in close, chest flush with Amanda's. She leaned in and thanked the blonde with a warm kiss. Outside, the thunder rumbled, low and steady as a purr.
"So, Carisi was just checking in, huh?" she asked when they parted lips but not bodies. Earlier in the evening, Olivia had ditched the heels for a pair of spare sneakers she kept in her bottom desk drawer. Amanda's boots put them at the same height. It was harder to be intimidating while standing eye to eye with someone, especially when you would rather rub noses with her. But Olivia couldn't resist the question—or adding, candle ironically aloft: "You know he's still carrying a torch for you, right?"
"Jealous?" Amanda swayed her hips against Olivia's, taunting just the slightest bit. Then she clapped Olivia soundly on the rear. "Don't be. He's a sweet kid, but he can't hold a candle to you, Cap'n. Just hope he's not susceptible to strep, otherwise he's gonna sound like the Batman during his next closing argument."
"I just hope he doesn't decide to start charging us for babysitting. Lawyers are damned expensive."
After closing her expired laptop, righting Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and deciding to clean up the paperwork during daylight hours, Olivia locked the office door and linked arms with Amanda as they headed for the exit. On their way past the desks, Amanda paused to pick up Olivia's service weapon.
"Best not leave this lyin' around," she said, gently teasing. She offered the gun to Olivia without hesitation.
"You sure you want me to have this?" Olivia secured the gun in the holster she'd found discarded on her office floor. She couldn't bring herself to look at Amanda as she placed the weapon in her purse.
"Yep. Nobody I trust with it more." Amanda linked their arms again and reached over to pat the cloche that housed her taxidermy chipmunk. "I'd be deader'n Mister Chips if you weren't a pro at handling firearms."
"Not funny."
"I'm serious. If you didn't have complete control and know when not to pull the trigger, that's when I'd start to worry."
It was a nice thought, but Olivia would take more convincing. She had pointed a loaded gun at her girlfriend. Though it was only for a second, though she hadn't even depressed the trigger safety—nor would she have, without first seeing a face—it still made her sick to her stomach, the "what if." Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to be home with her children; she wanted to unwind with a glass of Merlot, take Amanda to bed, and hold her close until all fear and the sound of those voices faded.
(Do you want to die tonight, Captain Benson?)
"Who knows, maybe we can put these candles and the storm to good use when we get home," Amanda said in a suggestive drawl as they left for the stairwell.
"Maybe," Olivia echoed, turning for one last look at her dark and empty squadroom. Screw the son of a bitch that thought she could be undone by a few idle threats (whoever he was).
Tonight, she planned to live.
. . .
THE END