Title: Run

Rating: Mature audience only, please! Language, violence

Pairing: Alex/Olivia, featuring the rest of the cast

Disclaimer: I don't own, so you don't sue. I have nothing you'd want anyway!

Notes: I know, I know, the 'missing scenes' from the 5th season episode 'Loss' has been done to death, but I wanted to examine the entire episode from the point of view of the two most important characters in it. This chapter is from Olivia's point of view. This is very heavily in-canon, but with some off-canon elements to it. Sections of dialogue were taken from the episode 'Loss', and are typed in boldface print, so there won't be any doubt which words are mine and which aren't. Dedicated to Stephanie March and Mariska Hargitay, who brought this episode so vividly to life.

Run

I wanted to run.

I stood there next to that gravesite, watching the coffin being lowered into the ground; the coffin that only Elliot and I and her mother knew was empty. The tears I cried, however, weren't for her; they were, selfishly, for me. Before this case, I was happy, secure. I'd found myself, with Alex's help; I was whole again, no longer a fragile, flawed crystal dolphin. And then, in one instant, with one bullet, all of that was shattered, broken. Gone.

I wasn't sure I knew how to be me. Alex had been a part of my life for so long, both at work and out of it. We'd laughed together, cried together, fought together, lived together, loved together. I was half of something infinitely precious, and for a moment there, I'd thought it was gone.

I don't even remember what I'd done. I don't remember the rest of that terrible night five days ago. It comes back to me in moments of sharp clarity between moments of fuzziness, like little mental snapshots. Several stand out clearly; crawling across the pavement to Alex's side, barely able to take my eyes off her for a moment to catch the attention of a passerby and tell them to call an ambulance. I remember calling her name, crying her name desperately, telling her to stay with me, that she was going to be fine. I remember Elliot grabbing my arms and pulling me back, away from her body as the EMT techs swarmed over her, and then everything goes fuzzy.

My next clear mental snapshot is of standing up from those hard plastic chairs at the hospital. The doctor just came out, and his face is so grim I know what he's going to say before he says it; but there's till a stubborn, irrational part of me that's hoping I'm wrong. I hope that he's going to say she's going to be all right, but then he says gently, carefully, "I'm sorry, Detectives. The bullet hit a major artery in her shoulder, and she lost too much blood. The ambulance didn't get to her fast enough." I stared down at my hands; they're still coated with blood, Alex's blood, from where I pressed down on her shoulder to stop the flow, at least a little. And then I turn my head, almost in slow motion, and I see the surgeons through the window pulling the sheet up over her face. And I lose it.

That much I know. I lost it, there. I threw myself at the window, screaming Alex's name in a fury of anguished grief and hollow loss, and I pound my fists against it, ignoring the bloody streaks my hands are leaving on the glass, hoping that the sheer amount of noise I make will wake her up, and she'll sit up on the table and push the sheet off, and smile and say she's going to be all right. But she won't, and the monitors are all flatlined. She was all I had, and she was gone now.

Elliot wraps his arms around my waist and hauls me bodily back from the window, and drags me forcibly back into the damn plastic chair. I want to pick it up, to hurl it at him; how could he keep me from her? I want to throw it at the window, at the doctor who stands there with concern in his eyes but empty hands. I want to run into that OR, want to go in there and wake Alex up and take her home. I want Alex. And I couldn't have her, ever again. I collapsed into the chair Elliot put me in, and he wrapped his arms around me, one of his hands pressed to the back of my head, gently but insistently until I give into the pressure and lay my face into his jacket, crying and crying as if I'll never stop. He knew how close we were; but I don't think even he knows just what she gave me that no one else ever gave me, what it was about her that kept me coming back. She loved me, unconditionally, unreservedly; even when I left her for a fling with a man, she was always there for me, smiling, willing to take me back, hug me and hold me when the man broke my heart and I had only her to turn to again.

When I had no more tears left I looked up again, and the OR was empty. The doctor had gone. And suddenly all I wanted to do was go, too. I pushed Elliot away and ran. Ran down the hall, out of the hospital, out into the streets. I had heard the voice on the tape say 'you should see her girlfriend', and I remember seeing Alex's look of shock, that someone we'd never even met knew about us. I remember hoping that Zapata would find me, would be watching the hospital for me and see me coming out and shoot me, right then and there, and then I could go and be with her.

I should have known I wouldn't be that lucky. I can't be that lucky. Look at me, look at who I am. Luck is not a word that can be attached to me or my life in any one given sentence. I was born unlucky. If I'd been lucky, I wouldn't have been conceived when my mother's rapist came inside her. If I'd been lucky, I wouldn't have had to deal with all the shit I had to deal with growing up. If I'd been lucky, my mother wouldn't have drank; she wouldn't have abused and neglected and degraded me every time her blood alcohol level rose. If I'd been lucky I would have left. If I'd been lucky I would have become the teacher I always dreamed I'd be when I was younger. If I'd been lucky, I would have been behind Elliot on his left, closest to the street. If I'd been lucky I would have taken the bullet for Alex, and she would still be free to live her life.

If I'd been lucky Zapata's hitmen would have dropped me there on the pavement outside the hospital.

I'm not that lucky.

I ran. I didn't know where I was going. I didn't care. I ran blindly, letting my feet decide where they would take me, and it wasn't until they finally stopped that I realized I'd run from the hospital to my home. I didn't want to go home. I didn't want to go into the apartment and see Alex's jacket sitting there over the arm of the couch, the jacket she'd left and I'd promised to bring to work that day and forgotten in my hurry. I was about to run again, despite the stitch in my side, despite the fact that I was exhausted, mentally and emotionally, when a hand caught me.

Elliot had known where I would go, or he followed me. God, I'm lucky I have a partner like him. He caught my arm, preventing me from taking off again, and guided me to his car. I followed him blindly, stumbling in weariness, and he stuffed my body into the front passenger seat of his car and buckled my seatbelt for me. I don't remember the trip; I don't think I said anything. He was silent, too, God only knows what he thought. Everything is fuzzy; I don't remember climbing the steps to the precinct, I don't remember him opening the door to the Crib, I don't remember him tucking the blanket up around me like I was one of his daughters. I slept; I was more exhausted than I realize.

My next clear memory is waking up in the Crib, going from deep sleep to instant wakefulness. There was no fogginess around the memory now. Sometimes, the morning after something terrible happens, you wake up, and things seem normal until you remember that something bad happened last night, something terrible and catastrophic and my life will never be the same, and then it hits you like a ton of bricks and you want to drift back into that blessedly oblivious sleep.

I got up and opened the door, and t the sound every head and eye in the squad room turned toward me. Most of them were sympathetic; they understood I'd lost someone close. Fin's eyes were a little red; I wondered if he's been crying. John looked like he'd aged about ten years overnight; Elliot looked haggard, and I wondered distantly f he'd even slept at all. Cragen's eyes, when he looked at me, were full of understanding. He knew what I was feeling; I didn't have to tell him. He'd sort of adopted me as his 'daughter' when I joined the unit; at first tentatively, then wholeheartedly when he found out I didn't have a father. I told him things I didn't dare tell my 'big brother' Elliot; things I couldn't tell Fin or John, I told him.

My sex life wasn't any of his business, but I knew he worried so I kept him apprised, delicately. It started when I'd unburdened myself to him after the day Alex saw my scars; I needed to know if the understanding, compassion and acceptance I found in Alex was common to only women, to her specifically, or if eventually a man would accept those scars too. He'd flinched when I told him about Christopher, in high school; and he'd assured me that most weren't like that. It felt good, coming from a man who was old enough to be objective about things like this, but who cared enough about me to tell me the truth about what he thought and felt. I'd hugged him for it, and he'd looked at me like I'd given him a priceless gift. Don was the father I didn't have; I don't think Elliot even knows how many times he's given me rides home, how many times he's picked me up when I needed it, or knocked me on my ass when I needed that too. Alex knew, but she didn't tell. Only Alex.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and went wordlessly into his office when he gestured…and then I cried on his shoulder for an hour. I was completely dry when I went out, went to my locker, and took out the little black band that fit across my shield. I fit it over the gold, under the lower half of the circle but over my badge number, and clipped it to the lapel of my jacket, crumpled after sleeping in it. It was a blatant defiance of tradition; traditionally it was only supposed to be worn for cops, by cops. I felt every eye in the squad room on me when I turned around, the mourning band plain in front of me, but I didn't care. IAB was going to have fits about my wearing it for an ADA; at the moment, I couldn't care less.

And then, Elliot, bless his heart, deliberately took his badge off, took his own little mourning band out of his desk drawer, and fitted it over his shield. And he clipped it to his shirt pocket, right where I'd put mine. Fin and John followed suit….and suddenly every officer in the squad room was wearing that black band too. Don must have noticed the absence of sound in his squad room; he stuck his head out of his office, saw me with the band across my shield. Saw Elliot, watching him with his own band, and he retreated into his office and closed the door. When he came back out, he too, wore the band. If IAB was going to have fits about this, they were going to have to nail every cop in the room, starting with Don and working their way down.

And by the end of that day, every cop in the One-Six wore that band.

I refused his offer of a ride home that night; instead, I ran home, the whole way, tears burning in my eyes and my chest. And when I finally got in, breathless, the sight of Alex's jacket over my couch, undisturbed after two days, almost sent me back out. Something made me reach for it, grab it, and then I was lying on my couch, curled around that jacket, sobbing my heartbreak because I'd lost her. She called me the wind beneath her wings, once; I told her she was the wind beneath mine. If she didn't do something with the cases I handed her, I wouldn't make them, and my reason for living would be gone. She was the wind; not me. She was the one who gave me the courage, every day, to get up and face the world again. She was so happy, so bold and brave and defiant, and I had to get up and go to work every day to keep that spirit alive in someone else, a silent homage to the woman I loved.

I knew then just how much I was going to miss waking up next to her, how much I was going to miss seeing her long blond strands caught in my hairbrush because she forgot to bring hers. How much I was going to miss seeing her come out of the shower, dripping wet and so damn sexy I'd take the towel off and we'd make love right there. How I'd miss her hogging all the hot water for her morning shower. How I'd miss smelling her shampoo on my pillow, her body soap on my sheets. How I'd miss coming home late at night to find her in bed already but dinner waiting in the microwave with those annoyingly endearing 'Eat before you sleep, Fearless!' Post-Its stuck to my microwave door.

I'd miss being able to surprise her at her apartment, if I happened to be off or got out early; miss lighting candles and running a hot bath, and meeting her naked at her door with a glass of light wine and a kiss; I'd miss running my hand over her long limbs, her lean body; miss our workouts, how I had to piss her off before she'd attack me, and then once she got really worked up she'd put me on my back on the mat. I'd miss leaving her the odd note in her briefcase or the bag of her favorite chocolates with 'Just because, Sis. Love, Fearless' Post-Its stuck to the side of the plastic. I'd miss her.

The mood persisted. I felt like I didn't have anything to live for anymore. I'd been 'Alex and Liv' for so long, almost three years, that I didn't know how to be just 'Liv' anymore. Captain Cragen didn't push me back out; for once, I welcomed the quiet time at my desk, and he let me take my time. He didn't bat an eyelash when the three days of mourning were up and everyone took their bands off their shields except me. When IAB came to hassle me about my still wearing it, Cragen sent them off with their tails tucked between their legs. He didn't tell me what they'd said, and I was grateful, because I didn't want to know.

I didn't know what I was expecting when a uniform brought the Post-it from Agent Hammond requesting Elliot's and my presence in Central Park that evening. For one wild moment I almost told Elliot I wasn't going. I didn't want to see the man who'd put his investigation ahead of ours, and cost Alex her life, but I couldn't do that to him. As much as I was hurting over Alex's death, he had to have been hurting too, not only because he missed her but also because he could see my obvious pain too. I couldn't run form this, as much as I wished I could. I didn't understand what Hammond meant when he said, "This one's being a real hard ass, wouldn't take no for an answer." I didn't understand when he opened the door of the car. But it all became a moot point when she stepped out, carefully, because her arm was in a sling and she looked like she was in a lot of pain, but it was unmistakably her.

She looked at Elliot first, saying something about being sorry, and I only vaguely listened because my eyes were filled with the sight of her, whole and alive. She was going into witness protection, and she didn't know for how long. She didn't know how long it would take to get Velez dealt with. I just stood there, tears running down my face, as the pieces of my heart pulled themselves together. Witnesses going into witness protection weren't supposed to have any contact with the people they left behind; it was an incredible testimony to how stubborn Alex was, how persistent, and it also drove home to me how much she must have loved me, because she wasn't here meeting her mother; she was here meeting us. And then she turned her head toward mine, and tears filled her eyes, and I knew she wasn't even here for Elliot. She was here for me. Her eyes said she knew about my panic in the hospital, and she couldn't leave me like that. And her eyes said she was going to miss me as much as I was going to miss her.

They hurried her back in the car, and she didn't look back as they drove her away to whatever new life they'd cobbled up for her. Or if she did, I didn't see it through tinted windows at midnight. Elliot turned to me, asking me something, but I shrugged his hand off, shrugged off his concern, and I ran. Again. From the ass-end of Central Park back to my own apartment, and the memories I had of Alex.

And now Elliot's turning to me, asking me again if he can take me home. It's raining, a cold drizzle, and October rain in New York is cold. I'm wearing black; skirt, heels, shirt, sweater, jacket, and my badge, again, is prominently displayed in front of my lapel with the black band around it. Don told me to wear it as long as I felt I needed to, and screw IAB; somehow, it just hasn't felt right taking it off even though I know she's alive. I shrug off Elliot's hand and walk away. Ignoring Elliot's and Fin's and John's and Don's gazes drilling holes in my back, between my shoulder blades, I keep to the steady walk until I round the corner, the bend in the cemetery path, and then I break into a jog. It's killing my feet, running in three-inch heels, but I don't care. I have to run. I wish I could have run after her, run with her, gone with her wherever she went, so she wouldn't have to be so alone. No. So I wouldn't have to be so alone.

I arrive back at my apartment, soaked through by the rain, breathless, chilled to the bone. Don wanted us back at the station, but he told me to go ahead and change before I came back. I know I have to get back, but there's a package waiting for me, a little box set neatly beside my apartment door, and as I pick it up any questions as to who it's from vanish when I see Alex's handwriting on the label.

Screw work. I drop my things on the couch, put the box on the coffee table, and open it. It's so well wrapped that I can't figure out what it is at first, but as my shaking hands peel away layers of foam and plastic the shape becomes clearer until finally I'm holding a magnificent six-inch tall crystal dolphin, in full lead crystal by its weight, and nestled among the crystal waves at its base is a Polaroid of Alex, smiling, holding the dolphin I'm holding now and one identical to it together. At the bottom she's scrawled, Take care of him for me, Fearless. Love, Sis.

My eyes start to blur with tears, and I blink rapidly in an effort to dispel them. That's when I notice the packet of folded paper tucked in the side of the dolphin's box. I put him down carefully and reach for it, pulling it out carefully and unfolding it. It's Alex's handwriting, and just seeing it makes my eyes tear up again. I blink them away and focus on the words.

Dear Liv:

I'm so sorry, Olivia. I wish it wasn't this way. I wish I hadn't said the things I said to Zapata; I wish I could rewind all of this and do things different, and make it all okay again. But I can't. I can only beg for your forgiveness, for leaving you alone, for being the coward and running. I'm not you, Olivia. I'm not fearless. I'm afraid for my life, I'm afraid for yours. If they can't get me they'll try to get you, or my mother, or anyone else in the unit. I could deal with anyone else…but you. You're the one precious thing in my life I can't give up, the one person I'm so afraid for. I can't put your life in danger. So I'm going.

They patched me up at the hospital pretty quickly. The pressure you put on the wound stopped the blood flow from the torn artery, and while I'm going to have to take it easy for a while, I won't suffer any lasting effects. All that's going to be left is a scar on my skin and a scar on my heart. And on yours. Olivia, I'm sorry about that too; I know I promised you a long time ago that I wouldn't hurt you, and now I'm hurting you in the worst way of all. And I can't do a damn thing about it. I saw you at the hospital. I saw you throw yourself at the window, crying, screaming for me, and if I'd been ambulatory and unsedated I would have run back, and the Feds would have had to go to hell. But I wasn't, I was barely conscious, and they hurried me away. All I could do was refuse to leave the VA hospital they stashed me in until they agreed to let me see you one last time. I didn't want your last image of me to be of me lying on that sidewalk with my blood on your hands, in shock.

The writing is blurred here, as if Alex has dropped a tear on the page.

So I'm sending you this photo, even though, by the time you get this, there will be another image of me in your mind. But as of last night, when I left the hospital and they handed me the paperwork with my new identity on it, I'm no longer Alexandra Cabot; I'm Emily-something-or-other, with a new haircut, new clothes, new everything. Except two things. I fought them like hell to keep the necklace you gave me with the 'sister' slider bead and the mate to the dolphin in your hand. They were two halves of a whole, and I know the photo is really bad but you can see they were meant to fit together. Like we are. Apart, they're separate but equally beautiful works of art; together, they form an indescribably beautiful whole. This is my last photo as Alexandra Cabot. Keep it. Keep the dolphin. Remember me. And I'll be back someday. I'll help them do whatever it is they want to do, need to do, to get Velez extradited or otherwise 'dealt with'. And when that day comes, there won't be any more reason to run, except back home to you. And we'll be Fearless and Sister, together again.

I love you, Olivia.

Alexandra.

I can hardly breathe through the lump in my throat. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but for the first time since the shots rang out, I'm at peace. The tears are gentle, healing grief, not the angry anguish of the last few days. For the first time, as I put the letter down and look at Alex's jacket, still lying on the sofa, I don't feel the urge to throw something, I don't want to scream or be angry. I believe Alex. I trust Alex. I don't know when, but my soulmate will, eventually, one day, come home. All I have to do is wait.

I fold the letter carefully and head for my bedroom, carrying the dolphin and the letter. In a box in the back of my bottom drawer, are all my important papers; little bits of my life that I want to keep, treasure, never let go. I lay Alex's letter in the box, carefully smoothing the edges down, then replaced the box and go to my bedside table. It's a matter of a few moments to replace my old dolphin, the one with the flawed tail fin, the one I call my 'pre-Alex' self, with the new one. It catches the first ray of weak, watery sunlight coming from my window and fractures the light into a thousand dancing rainbows on my bedroom walls. I arrange it so that it can get the benefit of the best sunlight available from the window and sit there for a moment, looking at a snip of rainbow lying across my pillow. Rainbows are supposed to mean hope, I think, from the Bible. I'll have to ask Elliot later this afternoon as we head out to interview the next witness on our list for the new case we got yesterday, the case Don's been too polite to push me out to work on.

I go to my closet, take out my black slacks and black polo shirt. The shirt's not completely black; there are sparkly threads woven into the knit that throw back a subtle point of light. It's too soon to stop wearing black, but my grief is no longer so all-encompassing. I pick a pair of black running sneakers out of my closet. No one's going to notice them under the black slacks, and a run from my apartment to the One Six will be the thing to clear the last dregs of grief from my mind.

There's light at the end of the tunnel, a light named Alex. Every stride I take will bring me closer to her. For her, I'll run.

Notes:

I'm breaking with my personal tradition here and putting a set of notes at the end of this chapter. I think it's done, but I'm tossing around the idea of one more chapter, describing Elliot's point of view as he watches his partner/best friend go through all of this. If this is something you all would like to read, please let me know! Thank you!