A/N: Time for a change of pace, guys. While I love writing fluff & smut, drama will always be my personal fave. And lest we forget that the Devilishverse is a dark and twisty place, I decided to whip up a little angst-filled soufflé as a reminder. Btw, this fic ties in with the longer story I'm writing. In some ways it could almost be a prologue to that one. That's not to say a certain blonde ADA will appear in the third installment, but she will at least play a part. (EASTER EGG: There is one word in this fic that I will change once the long fic is done.) Also, I toyed around a little with the timeline, regarding what Amanda & Alex would actually know about each other. Please R & R. Enjoy!
Special thanks to amilynh for proofreading & offering input. :)
The silence had gone beyond a pregnant pause and now stretched into an awkward, obstinate refusal to speak first. She knew Alex meant well, but sometimes the former attorney forgot that not every discussion was meant to be argued like a court case. Sometimes you should just be happy for your friend.
"Liv . . . ?" It came so softly, Olivia barely heard. She could picture the expression that accompanied the tentative voice: somewhat fretful, the china blue eyes owlish behind frames that always looked a bit too heavy for such delicate features, the lips rounded in an anticipatory "O." Alex Cabot had always reminded her a little of a skittish exotic bird, about to take flight. Fierce when confronted, but more inclined to outwit than overpower.
Olivia raised the cell phone she had angled away from her chin. "I'm still here."
"I'm sorry. I didn't intend— I wasn't trying to upset you." Alex sighed and made an unseen gesture that troubled the air on her end. "Maybe the work I've been doing is making me paranoid. I see so many women who've been taken in by their partner. By the time they realize it, they're in too deep. Abuse isn't always physical, you know."
Lips compressed tightly, Olivia gave a short nod, as if the other woman were seated across from her, sipping a glass of chardonnay, not hundreds of miles away in some top secret location. Hell, for all she knew, Alex might be in the city, helping battered New York wives frame their husbands for murder. She swirled the merlot in her wine glass for a moment, then tipped back her head to drain the rest.
Two years ago, she didn't understand how someone of Alex's character, who had spent years fighting for legal justice, could turn around and so blatantly flout the system. She still didn't. But she did know what it was like to be accused of seeing victims everywhere. Even Amanda, whom Olivia had spent most of this regrettable conversation defending, once told her she made victims out of molehills; mountains out of a little thing like domestic abuse.
Pinching the phone between her ear and shoulder, Olivia poured another glass of wine. It was only her third—fourth?—and she wasn't on duty tomorrow. This was proving to be a four-glass kind of phone call.
"What am I saying, of course you know that." Alex sounded flustered, and a faint smirk twitched at the corner of Olivia's mouth. She'd always prided herself on not giving into the stereotypical cattiness that supposedly plagued female friendships, but the alcohol had loosened her up just enough to enjoy listening to her old friend squirm. Especially when that friend was questioning Olivia's choice of romantic partner and implying that she couldn't recognize when someone was using her. It was almost as if Alex didn't know her at all anymore.
Saddened by the thought, Olivia mulled on another sip and stared into the dark liquid in the bowl of her wine glass, eyes glazing over. She couldn't place all the blame on Alex, here. Her own loose lips were partially responsible for Alex's unfavorable opinion of Amanda. But those handful of "just catching up" coffee dates, when Olivia had bemoaned working with a new pair of detectives, including a little blonde spitfire from some hideous Bible Belt state or another, had been so long ago; the late night calls and texts to complain about a colleague with a gambling addiction hadn't seemed as unprofessional at the time, especially when the addiction was disrupting her squad; and she should never have let it slip that Amanda had grown up in an abusive household, no matter how many drinks Alex plied her with, encouraging her to "dish" on which detective gave her the most grief since she'd become sergeant—and eventually, lieutenant—of SVU.
Only now did Olivia realize she had been attempting to make the older blonde jealous by trotting out the younger, wilder blonde every chance she got. She hadn't planned on falling in love with the wild one in the meantime. And now that she had the woman she wanted, the one whom she used to pine for didn't approve.
Oh, what a tangled web you weave, Captain, Olivia thought, then leaned forward to deposit her wine glass on the coffee table. When she started quoting nineteenth-century poems at herself, it was definitely time to lay off the sauce. Her mother had often cited poetry while drunk, too. Wordsworth and Shelley were particular favorites.
Alex was still verbally backpedaling: "I trust your judgment. Truly. If you say Amanda is right for you—"
"I do," Olivia snapped. Planting her elbow firmly in the arm of the couch, she pressed a hand to her forehead, massaging with the tips of her fingers. No migraine yet, but there was a menacing stillness in her skull, a desolate feeling she didn't care for—the calm before the storm.
"—then I believe you. I just want you to be cautious. And I'm not just talking about financially. Keep an eye out for controlling behavior, jealousy, isolation. Not all abusers are men. With her history—"
"Jesus Christ, Alex. Stop."
"She did shoot someone in her home, Liv."
"Yes, because he was attacking her sister. And I beat a man with a metal bar until his eye socket caved in like a rotted melon." Olivia's voice had begun to rise in octave, and Gigi perked her head up from the cushion at the opposite end of the couch, studying her owner intently. "Do you really think I'm so willfully blind that I couldn't spot an abusive personality from a mile away?" Olivia continued in a harsh whisper. The children were in bed and wouldn't wake up if the entire Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade marched through the apartment, but her simmering anger—and simmering brain—required a lower register. "I grew up with one, the same as Amanda did. And unless you're implying that I'm like my mother—"
"What about Elliot?"
Olivia's jaw clamped shut abruptly, as if it were on a spring hinge. "What about him?" she gritted out through her teeth. Gigi army-crawled across the couch cushions and nuzzled her head under Olivia's arm, peering up with wide, concerned eyes. Forcing her fist to unclench, Olivia petted the golden retriever's back with long, repetitive strokes.
"He wasn't good for you," Alex said, her voice gentle, maddening. She sounded like she was talking to a frightened doe. "Your relationship was toxic. I could see it, but you . . . let him walk all over you. You deserve better."
And just like that, the migraine screamed into existence, threatening to pop the top of her skull off, her eyes from the sockets, like a champagne cork from a shaken bottle. The words shot out of her mouth with equal force: "And what the hell did you ever do about it?"
Silence again. Long, agonizing silence, disturbed only by Gigi's whining. And, moments later, a key in the front door. Amanda walked in, smiling as she chucked her keys into the dish on the table, Frannie's leash dangling from her other hand. The dog trotted forth exuberantly—she did everything exuberantly, that one—and plopped down at Amanda's feet, panting out her own little pitbull grin. Someone had enjoyed her evening jog.
"Maybe I should go."
"Me too. Amanda just got home." Olivia managed to mask the agitation in her voice—or so she believed, until Amanda paused in the middle of nudging off her sneakers and cast a curious look towards the couch. She pointed at Olivia, mouthing, "Who?"
"Cabot," Olivia mouthed back.
The detective's eyebrows went up. She unhooked Frannie's leash, hung it by the door, and padded over to flop down on the couch, in much the same fashion as her canine companion, who was already sound asleep on the floor. She eyed the wine glass in front of her, scooping it up for a sip when Olivia nodded.
"Oh. Okay, well . . . tell her I said hello." Alex hesitated for several more beats. Then: "I miss you, Liv. That's all I—"
"Take care of yourself, Alex." Olivia's thumb was poised above the end call button. "Goodbye," she said quietly, and pressed the red icon before she knew if a reply followed, or if Alex had even heard her at all. Heaving a sigh, she dropped the hand holding her cell phone into her lap. Gigi nosed closer and licked her wrist a few times.
For a while, the silence from the unpleasant conversation seemed to have filtered over into their apartment. Olivia pinched the bridge of her nose, watching sidelong as Amanda took in the nearly empty bottle of merlot, the anxious pup, and the slumped and sulky posture of the captain seated across from her.
"Bad date?" Amanda asked, hints of humor in her tone. A faint smirk was detectable on her lips, but she offered a wink when Olivia frowned at the question, ready to deny its implications.
"Just Alex being . . . Alex." Olivia gestured vaguely at her phone, wishing she had never picked it up when the name "A. Cabot" appeared on the screen. She'd considered declining the call, knowing that Amanda would probably return before it ended. But she'd told herself that was ridiculous: her friendship with Alex wasn't some dirty little secret. They rarely caught more than each other's voicemail these days, anyway. "You know how opinionated lawyers are. Always force-feeding you unsolicited advice."
"Ex."
"What?" Olivia looked up from beneath the visor formed by her hand, fingers squeezing at both temples.
"Ex lawyers." Amanda held the wine glass out to Olivia, then set it aside when it was declined. She gave Gigi a light nudge on the rear, shooing her farther down the couch and settling into the fur-covered spot the golden had occupied. She plucked the cell phone from Olivia's lap and tossed it onto the armchair diagonal to the couch. Patting her own lap, she motioned for Olivia to lie down and rest her head there.
After they were situated, Olivia curled on her side with her knees drawn up, her eyes drifting closed as Amanda massaged her scalp with a firm, diligent grasp, the detective said, "She has feelings for you, you know that, right?"
Olivia turned her head too quickly and received a jab to the cheek from Amanda's pinky. "Who? Cabot?"
"Mm-hmm." Amanda nodded sagely, stroking the offended area with the backs of her fingers.
"That's . . . preposterous. Alex is just a friend. A very heterosexual friend. We never— no." Olivia caught herself in the middle of an emphatic gesture and immediately withdrew, tucking the hand under Amanda's thigh. "I've known her since we were both practically rookies. You're wrong."
Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Olivia bit her lower lip, an old habit she had regressed into over the past several months—she'd kicked it right around the time she first met a young, idealistic Alexandra Cabot, come to think of it—and turned her face away from Amanda; there was nothing in it to conceal, but a spark in the blue eyes above made Olivia feel guilty, nevertheless.
"She came back from the dead for you," Amanda said softly, kneading the nape of Olivia's neck with the palm of her hand. She worked her way up to the base of the skull, fingers pinching and prodding with just the right amount of pressure. Almost painful, but not quite.
Olivia sighed. Whether it was the massage or the discourse, she couldn't say. "She did that for herself, Amanda, not for me. The man who tried to kill her would've gone free if she hadn't come back to testify."
"That time, yeah. But what about all the other times?"
"What other times?"
Amanda walked her fingertips back and forth over Olivia's entire scalp, sifting through thick strands of hair, lifting it, letting it spill down through her fingers. The sensation was hypnotic, like watching a spider spinning its web. "You said it yourself, she has a way of showing up out of thin air . . ."
Olivia didn't recall ever saying such a thing, but thought it best not to mention that. It was the truth, after all. She had discussed Alex's vanishing acts with Dr. Lindstrom on occasion, written about them at length in her journals, and lain awake for nights afterwards, wondering why it should come as such a surprise each time the willowy blonde danced in and out of her life—why it should make her weep more bitterly than any other goodbye she'd faced, including her own mother's. Including Elliot's.
"And you can't tell me it was to see Cragen or Munch. Or Fin, even." Amanda focused on Olivia's forehead now, rubbing in slow, concentric circles. She was quiet for a moment. And then: "Or that rageaholic partner of yours. Think about it, what's been the one common denominator over the years, whenever she takes a notion to come back here?"
"The city," Olivia said stubbornly.
"No, darlin'. You." Amanda gave her a gentle poke to the ribs, and though it was done affectionately, Olivia couldn't help noticing the underlying accusation that came along with it. "Didn't y'all go on a bunch of dates a few years back? I know she spent beaucoup bucks on opera tickets that one time. Art exhibits, ice skating, expensive restaurants—"
"What is your point?" Olivia shifted onto her back and scrunched her knees in, but still barely had room for her long legs in the small couch corner. She gazed up at Amanda, searching. "Because this is starting to feel like the third degree."
This time, Amanda was the one who bit her bottom lip. She shrugged, playing her curiosity off as if it were no big deal. All those "dates" she remembered were simply a detective's natural gift for observing the finer details. "I just think it's a little naive to say it's one hundred percent platonic." She swept the hair from Olivia's forehead, wrapping a strand around her finger in a long, tickling coil. "I mean, on her end of things, baby. You, I trust. Her, not so much."
The curl unraveled, spiraling out of sight. Capturing Amanda's hand before it escaped too, Olivia laced their fingers together and rested their linked hands flat against her stomach. "Well, she's not here. So, what's that thing you always tell me? Quit your belly-aching."
"You gotta make it more Southern, though. More guttural. Yer belly-achin'."
"I'm not saying that."
"Snob." Amanda grinned mischievously and, using her thumb and index finger like pincers, tweaked at Olivia's stomach and sides—the little scoundrel knew all her ticklish spots—until she squirmed and let out a yelp of laughter. Amanda was the only person she'd ever permitted to tickle her; of course, the blonde was also the only person who ever dared try.
"I give. I give." Olivia twisted away from the threat of Amanda's clawed fingers as they approached once again, snatching back at the last second. She was still coming down from her giggle fit, muscles twitching reflexively at the hand Amanda splayed open against her belly—sans pincers—when another sort of plying caught her completely off guard.
"Did she ask you to join her?"
"What?" Olivia blinked up at Amanda in confusion.
"The last time she was in Manhattan. I dunno, I just got the feeling . . . I think she wanted to get caught. By you." Amanda traced a fingertip around the blocky font of Olivia's Siena College t-shirt, which featured Bernie the Saint Bernard's paw print in the same kelly green shade Olivia had worn to every event she'd attended as a sweet (naive?) little sorority girl. The detective reached the outermost pad of Bernie's paw—the one that perfectly encircled Olivia's nipple—and idly grazed it with the backs of her fingers. "You tellin' me she didn't try to recruit you for her battered wife black ops?"
With a weary sigh, Olivia rolled onto her side and away from Amanda's touch, pushing herself upright on the couch. She grabbed the wine glass off the end table and sat back heavily, balling herself up like a fist in the farthest corner of the couch. She downed the remaining wine in a single draft. "If you don't want me to be friends with Alex, just say so, Amanda. I'll call her back right now and tell her my girlfriend says I can't talk to her anymore. You can listen in the whole time."
"Oh, for Christ's sake. That's not— I didn't mean—" Amanda growled in frustration and crossed her arms tightly over her chest, retreating into sullen silence. They remained there for a good, long while, the both of them, until Amanda finally muttered, "I would never try to control you like that, Liv. If that's what you think of me, then . . ."
Olivia shook her head adamantly, afraid to hear the conclusion. She thrust the empty wine glass away, disgusted by the sight of it, and reached for Amanda, gathering her into a snug embrace. "It's not. I'm sorry," she said, nuzzling into the detective's messy blonde ponytail, not caring that it smelled of sweat and Frannie Mae. She breathed a sigh of relief when Amanda's slender arms went around her, tugging her closer yet. "I shouldn't have said that. Let's just forget about goddamn Alex Cabot, okay?"
"Deal. But if I ever see that giraffe trying to put the moves on you again, I'll snap her like the walking skyscraper she is."
"Wow, that's some mixed metaphor you have there," Olivia said, with a laugh she hoped didn't sound as forced as it felt. She cupped her palm around Amanda's forehead, tilting the blonde's head back for a light kiss on smiling lips.
"Headache better?"
"Mm." It wasn't.
And as Olivia half-listened to Amanda chattering about an exceptionally large, unidentifiable rodent she and Frannie had encountered on their jog, another random quote surfaced in her mind, bringing with it a strong sense of foreboding. It was the wine, that was all. The wine and the thumping in her head, like drums . . .
That's why it kept ringing in her ears: Something wicked this way comes.