TITLE: Happy Halloween
AUTHOR: Nymph Du Pave
DISCLAIMER: L&O: SVU belongs to Dick Wolf, NBC and whoever else. I have nothing but a sick desire to play with the characters created by them. I earn no wages, just want to have fun.
AUTHOR'S EMAIL: nymph_du_pave@hotmail.com
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The damn SVU writers can't seem to keep their stupid friggin' stories and bios straight, even passed the apparently elusive information on John Munch. Does Cragen have a son or not damn it??? Well, this story is operating on the more recent of the episodes in which he says that he does not.
**I thought I knew where I was headed with this, but it changed a page or so in, so I had to go back and modify. The character [DAMN YOU, CRAGEN!!] took over, and we all know how utterly helpless the writer is when the character simply does not let up. It's not what I was expecting to write, or what I wanted to write, really, but Cragen wasn't having it. So here it is. HIS version. I hope you enjoy. Maybe I'll do a follow up.
Happy Halloween
CHAPTER FOUR: Just A Little Time
This was destined to be an interesting night at least.
We had just interrupted one of my detectives and my shrink holding each other in the coat closet of cop-friendly party... The last thing I ever would have expected any night to bring, and I was just seven minutes in to this one. I was glad that Alex and I had not gotten there a few minutes later. Who knows what we might have witnessed.
I shut the door behind me, leaving the two members of my cadre to whatever they had been previously engaged in and let out the laugh I had kept inside, easing up as Alex joined me. "That was unexpected," she whispered, confidentially close. I felt my gut tighten at her close proximity.
"I think it's safe to say the shock value of tonight can be exploited no more."
She nodded and headed down the hall. "And it's Halloween."
Finn, Elle and their little indiscretion got me thinking, though. Unfortunately my train of thought was along the same vein that I had been desperately trying to avoid ever since I has foolishly asked Alex to come with me to the party.
What my detectives do on their personal time is exactly that: personal. What I do on my personal time, as the captain of Special Victims, is less so. It's always left to more scrutiny as if I have to present an exemplary form to mimic in every one of life's little situations. Every little plight and I have to be able to withstand the light shining through my various cracks hoping that they won't split deeper thanks to the harsh inquisitions.
That is exactly why I have yet to broach the subject of a romantic affair with Alexandra Cabot. That and, of course, fear. The age difference is nothing to scoff at either. It's a bit, um, jarring to say the least. Fifteen years would have been too much in my previous assessments. Before I met the ambitious counselor. So double that and call me uncomfortable.
As we entered the large living-room-slash-kitchen that had been remodeled into an entertaining area, Alex's eyes immediately locked onto something across the room. "There's Jack and Abby."
I turned to look at my companion, her strong beauty always reassuring in an oddly intimate way. I tried to relax. "This is a party, Alex. Don't tell me that you want to go talk shop."
She turned to look at me. "Not necessarily shop. Abby wanted to speak to me about something earlier."
"Work."
She looked to the side and nodded, a habit I had become familiar with. "Well, yes, I suppose that's what she wanted, but I'm not sure."
I placed my hand on her elbow, and started to usher her through the crowd towards her colleagues. "What else does Abby Carmichael ever want to talk about." I rubbed my temple, then added bitterly, "Or you for that matter."
She merely gave me a patient, kind look that I didn't understand. While I was trying to decipher just what I had seen in those lavender blue eyes, we approached the pair of bickering lawyers, ADA and EADA, seeming, as always, ready to tear each other limb from limb.
They argue even more than we do, I thought, my mind traveling with light-speed through the memories of several of my more infamous argumentative moments with Cabot.
They acknowledged us quickly with the appropriate holiday greetings, then started right in with Alex about the latest demands of the DA. I rubbed my forehead again, knowing that too much of this and I was a goner. I didn't wait more than half an hour with Alex in her office while she finished important details, then come to a party to continue thinking about the things I went out to forget about.
I lowered my hand to knead my tense neck, and turned in time to see Ellandra Seymour and Odafin Tutuola leaving hand in hand. The captain in me growled about how this was going to affect relations and status in the work field, specifically with the abnormally uptight John Munch; the human in me was happy for the both of them. Finn was lonely and Elle was having a hard time with her mother's health issues. They deserved happiness.
So did I, right?
I moved in to whisper in Alex's ear. "I'm gonna be outside, okay?" She gave me a disappointed but understanding look that almost made me want to stay. Then Jack interrupted Abby with the exact opposite of what she was arguing.
I nodded a polite farewell to the two and started making my way towards the patio. I saw two couples dancing close to the sliding glass door, and was heavy in thought about getting Cabot out there with me when I bumped into Monique Jeffries. Both of us immediately tensed and looked elsewhere.
Just my freakin' night.
I took a chance and looked up, breathing deeply. "Detective Jeffries."
She nodded curtly. "Captain." Her voice was brisk and her eyes held that familiar glint of unyielding defiance that I had, in my time working with her, come to admire and curse. At least when it was turned on me with a vengeance.
Like now.
"Happy Halloween," I said softly, hating the fact that she still resented what she perceived as a lack of support from me in the past. The truth is that I fought like hell to keep her in my unit, did everything I could think of. But when push came to shove, she had simply given the psych counsel too much information and the commissioner's team saw her as a liability, shipping her back to Vice. Now she blamed me for her persecution because she never saw me in active support mode.
You don't only support your detectives in the workplace; you have to support them at hearings and during committee meetings. You have to support them in private as well as in public and I just wish she understood that.
After a moment, she nodded and gave a tight-lipped smile, but a smile nonetheless. "You, too."
We stood there for a moment awkwardly looking at anything but each other, then she cleared her throat. "Look, you haven't seen Olivia around here have you?"
I shook my head. "Sorry. If I do?"
She shrugged. "Just tell her I'm looking."
"Okay." She walked away, a little awkward at first, as if maybe she was waiting for me to say something. Or maybe she wanted to say something herself, but didn't know if it was wise. I watched her walk away mingling with the crowd and sighed, feeling that maybe I should have just gone home. I never was much the partygoer, and tonight was not doing much to convince me to suddenly become the contrary. Tired, headache, sore, two of my detectives are going to no doubt end up in a bitter break up of sorts, I'm not going to be able to spend time with Alex, and I run into the single detective that makes me feel guilty in record time.
I made my way to the door and opened it, stepping out onto the patio. The loft had been far too warm, but then again I preferred chill to heat. The cool night air was sharp and crisp, while the subtle mixture of fragrances roused my sense of smell as well as relaxed the rest of me. The candles scattered about issued the strongest single distinct scent from where I stood, that of burning vanilla. There were also various foods and perfumes blending together to form a separate, subtle aroma that was pleasant, even cozy.
I walked away from the couples dancing to a song I didn't know, and stood against the railing, just listening to the sounds of enjoyment, something a captain of the New York City police force hears very little of. It reminded me of summer more than October, despite the glaringly festive décor.
I closed my eyes and let the sounds wash over me, the backdrop, a lighthearted Halloween soundtrack, could barely be heard from the patio. It was playing from within the rather large homemade spook house, no doubt populated by faux phantoms and undead dummies. Over the sounds of laugher and quiet chatter that permeated my hearing came the occasional gleeful scream from a child inside the haunted house. And the music.
The song from the speakers finished and was replaced with one I knew well: Nat King Cole's There Will Never Be Another You. If it weren't for the crowd, the heat, and Alex's business company I would have headed back in. But it was too nice out here despite that particular number.
The lyrics of the song hit me hard, still fresh with emotions since I rarely heard it. It spoke of two lovers dancing for the last time then parting. During their dance, the young man was explaining what the future would hold.
Marge's face formed beneath my closed eyelids, and I sighed. I could still remember her eyes, so bright and penetrating. Her smile, so willing and free. All I had to do was walk into the room to be greeted with that warmth. Her body. While she'd be cooking I'd walk up behind her and wrap my around waist, pulling her tightly to me. The way her silky hair felt slipping through my fingers at night while she lay sleeping so peacefully in my bed.
Her death wasn't that long ago, but for a few years after it felts like this inexorable paradox. In my mind it was like she died just yesterday, but my fingers are screaming that they haven't touched her in decades. My head knew no time, but my body wasn't being fooled. Even though neither were correct in their estimates of the interval between her death and my present, it felt as if they both hit it on the head.
I used to have this dream at nights. I'd dream about being with her in the plane as it went down, holding her tightly against me and telling her that we'd be together when we finally landed, whether we made it out alive or not. I'd tell her no matter what, we won't lose each other because that's how I always- no, we always thought it would happen. True love never ended any way but such. We'd go within hours, days or, at the most, weeks of each other, ready and willing.
But life doesn't follow what you sense is written in the stars. It seems to instead follow a more chaotic and cruel blueprint, laid out like a labyrinth of individual pain.
In the dream I'm suddenly standing amidst the wreckage desperately trying to pull my wife out from under something large and heavy, looking around to other passengers, and quickly finding that we're the only survivors.
Then I pull my wife out and she just lies there, limp and unmoving. Lifeless.
This is impossible, I shout. I can't still be here. Not without her. I won't have it. When I see her face the expression of peace sends shards of glass through every nerve ending residing in my flesh. She can't be happy without me, can she? I know I can't be without her.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. My screams aren't silent, but instead as loud as possible and I hear nothing else but them. But I can see the sky, bright and clear above me, stars shining down from the elevated sanctuary above.
I open my eyes and look to the sky, partially covered by the tip of the awning. It looks the same, only now the passage of time has dulled that ominous burn in my brain to a slight feeling of unease, the subconscious reaction implanted by the continuous nightmares slowly dying out.
Right after the accident, I was happy that her body was never recovered. I couldn't bare to chance seeing that expression in real life. As if the torture my dreams elicited wasn't horrible enough.
The gleeful shriek of a couple teenage girls filled the air followed by uproarious laughter, and I wondered just what exactly was in the house. The sliding glass door opened behind me and I turned to see a couple kids wander out onto the patio. As I shifted my view into the loft, I caught just a sliver in the crowd of Alex standing with the other two attorneys still discussing something, but of a more jovial nature. I decided to stay: the air was sweet and refreshing and the song had changed into some happier romantic tune. My mind drifted back to its previous thoughts, more cautious of just how deep I was getting.
I haven't had that nightmare in a while, a long while, and now I wish I knew she was at peace without me. Acceptance is a wonderful thing once you know just how to obtain and maneuver within it. Nowadays it occasionally seems like I'd never been with her at all, like it was this perfect dream that I had merely hallucinated being real, only to be wrenched violently away thanks to the "Get Real" alarm going off in my head.
I learned to think anything that pure, that rich in sense can't last, can't sustain itself, even with help from others. Something happens, then it goes away. Anything that makes me feel even remotely complete will either in time be revealed for what it truly is, or worse, snatched away, never to be returned.
Hence the fear burning in my mind, blazing a trail around the name "Alexandra Cabot". I was attracted to her wit, intelligence, uncanny perceptions, and her amazing ability to just be and overtake. More ambitious than most in any field, she seems to radiate power and confidence, and not a little justified self-assuredness.
But what puts the apprehension inside my head and keeps it there, are my emotional feelings that are far removed from professional awe. I try to pull them back in and stomp them down completely but they extend past my grasp, and are too colossal to even fully observe.
I see her anywhere and, even though I know why she's there at that moment, I can't help but feel the burdens of the day lighten just a little bit. Things change in minor ways. It's like I've been wearing Munch's shades, and she walks in and takes them off. It's brighter and I'm more calm, more at peace.
Occasionally we'll eat lunch, and sometimes it'll be just the two of us instead of some strange mix of the unit. We'll sit and eat, and enjoy the time spent away from work, but I want to be able to ask her to lunch on any basis. Dinner, too. But not a date, just a dinner between to people who happen to be romantically inclined towards each other. I don't think I could put up with dating. Not again. I merely want to skip all the tiresome routines and just have her near, have her with me. I just want her to know me. I want the routine of being married.
We already fight like pros, why not get the emotional closeness as well?
I do feel that she has something inside for me. Something there that isn't pity for a lonely widow pushing a raw age and a few years soberness. I feel like she could possibly have romantic feelings that involve me, like she could love me, like I know I could love her.
And all of this makes me feel tremendously guilt stricken.
My wife would have never wanted me to be alone, would have never wanted this loneliness to take over, and if I had been the one in the plane, seeing how my wife started to slowly drown in booze and misery, I would want her to find someone to share the time with, someone to care about and maybe even love.
But not as much as she loved me.
Could I love Alex that much? The passions inside said absolutely, but the guilt said not to get involved, because either way it's a lose-lose situation. If I could love her that much, then I'd be betraying Marge. If I couldn't then I'd be selfishly taking her time, when there were plenty of men out there that would be willing, more than willing, to give their whole to her. I didn't have a whole to give, but I did so desperately want to.
"Hey, there, Captain."
I started a little and turned to see Alex standing beside me. "Please, it's Donald, Alex."
She smiled and did this half-nod, half-shake with her head. I always considered it to be a little charming, but right now, in my emotional state, it was too endearing to bare.
"You look a little gloomy."
I nodded, but said nothing.
"Happy Halloween?" she tried.
I smiled. "Happy Halloween."
She shook her head. "Pathetic."
"I know."
Her head cocked to one side, then she looked at me with a smile. "I love this song." I listened for a moment. A woman's voice I didn't recognize was doing a cover of Joni Mitchell's A Case of You.
"Care to dance?"
I was a little taken aback as that intimate beauty stuck a chord once again, but I nodded. "Sure." Probably not the wisest choice, but I was in need of a little comfort via physical contact.
We fell into posture almost naturally, the only problem being that in heals she was my height. We were at a close enough distance that I could feel her body rubbing up against mine, but not obscenely.
Marge was smaller. Not necessarily good or bad. Just an observation.
I breathed in deeply, letting it go slowly, so as not to attract the attention from my dancing partner.
There would never be another wife like mine, never be another woman on the face of the earth who could make me feel the way that she did. But there was a chance, a large chance, that one could match the level of intensity when it came to the emotions that she had once aroused. I only had to accept that and move on. But that was going to take some time. Time that I desperately hoped that I had.
On to the next couple!
