Tension Point
Author's Note: Hello again, everybody! Wow, is it really the fifth chapter already? Time flies when one is writing angst, that's for sure. Heron is surprised that so many of you are still reading this fiction. She commemorates your loyalty, and, to those of you just coming into the story, if you've made it this far, welcome to the family!
Honestly, Heron is disappointed in herself. She can't seem to connect the chapters in any semblance of sense, so, uh, sorry? Anyway, maybe, just maybe, the angst will lighten up this chapter, and Heron might even manage to slip in some humor, maybe… Most people are smart enough to write their author's notes when they've either finished the chapter or known what they were going to do, but Heron…not that smart. The notes at the bottom are written after the chapter but these here at the top…Heron is clueless. Anywho, thank you all for staying along for the ride so far. Heron has no idea just how much longer this is gonna last, but for those of you who are sticking it out, FREE HUGS!!! On with the insanity!
Rain lashed the window behind him as he sat at his desk. His desk specifically, not the one he borrowed at the SVU stationhouse. Here, in the FBI branch office that was exclusively his, the clocks were dead on and not three hours behind, and the nearly sterile environment didn't bring up any nasty memories.
Dr. Huang swiveled in his office chair, away from his desk to face the cold, impersonal city rain that was probably acid what with the air pollution. Here, away from the Adam White case, was a much needed vacation. Here, even though he wasn't technically supposed to be in his office, he could immerse himself in thoughts and memories from before Adam White became a shadow behind every corner and the boogey man that hid under his bed and terrified his dreams at night, or whenever he happened to sleep.
It was a particularly difficult case, and for the first time in their respective careers, he and Alex Cabot were fighting over what was right about it. A young boy had taken a gun to his school and shot two of his classmates to death, after fantasizing about doing so for a while, but he never would have acted on those fantasies had his mother not given him antidepressants that had had the side-effect of psychosis.
Alex, the warrior of justice, wanted, needed, to prosecute to the fullest extent the murderer of two young boys. George, advocate of the forgotten, wanted, needed, to get help for the poor boy whose mind had been torn to shreds by the chemicals in the medication his mother had given him.
George was the only one capable of keeping an even temper. Though, he didn't have the right to lose his temper, he guessed, not after agreeing to testify for the defense. When Alex found out, she was livid. She shouted and yelled and snarled, getting so in his face he almost swore she was going to bite him right on the nose. He didn't back down, though. Alex intimidated him then, but he didn't show it. Helping someone who needed mental help was more important that appeasing a friend.
After a staring contest, not brief, as his eyes had nearly watered from the effort of not blinking, Alex stormed away. Several of her coworkers in the law office saw fit to complain of "Hurricane Alex" blowing through, and were careful to stay out of her way.
Later, Alex came into his office, his FBI office, and gingerly closed the door behind her, as if feeling slightly guilty and remorseful about her earlier homicidal ideations. "I need some advice," she mumbled, barely able to make eye contact.
"Well, lay down on the couch over there and tell me all about it," he offered, eyes twinkling with humor.
"Not that kind of advice," she admonished, mock-glaring at him. "I just, well, what's justice?" She went on to ask what she should do, prosecute the killer, or defend the drug-induced psychotic? How the hell did she get any semblance of justice out of this tangled mess?!
"Get the boy help," George advised gently. "And then go after whoever put those drugs in his hands. That's justice."
Following up on that, Alex hung the drug company in the courtroom. It turned out that they had sent free samples via drug rep. to the doorsteps, not mailboxes, doorsteps, of former clients, and since the killer's mother had taken the meds before and they had worked for her, she tried giving some to her son, and that was when all hell broke loose and now two innocent boys were dead, a third scarred for life.
And George Huang tried to never piss off Alex Cabot ever again, because she was scary when she was angry.
That was ever a fond recollection, despite the fact that he had honestly thought Alex was going to hurt him for siding with the defense, and, in effect, against her. Despite his fear, it was a memory before the time of Adam White, and a memory of Alex in her relentless pursuit of justice. She was strong now, but that had been an untainted memory of her strength and her sheer force of will. She didn't have to tangle with a rapist to prove herself then.
For some time, George Huang had been realizing that many of his thoughts now centered on Alex Cabot. He'd be walking in the city, pass a café, and wonder if Alex would like the coffee there, and other things like that. Mundane little instances, for sure, but the woman was never far from his mind, if she ever left at all. For his part, though, he was starting to feel more like his old self, but again and then, it was all her fault, not that that was a bad thing…oh, where the hell did he stand?! Some irrational part of his head still wanted, needed, to blame himself for mis-profiling White, but another voice in his thoughts, one that sounded suspiciously like Alex, told him he was being an idiot.
He closed his eyes and leaned back in his office chair – tall-backed, black leather, exceedingly uncomfortable unless slouched in – and sighed, his thoughts running unbidden back to that one special night, before Adam White had gotten out of jail free, the first night in the park with Alex. The weight of her head resting on his shoulder as they sat together on the bench had been comfortable, natural. And then, when she had driven him home, she'd kissed him on the cheek before he'd gotten out of the car. He remembered the feeling well, and often found his thoughts drifting back to that moment specifically.
Why? Maybe he was falling for the ADA, then again, maybe he was just lonely. George found it amazing that he could psychoanalyze other people so easily, and yet his own mind, which he should by all rights know the best, was a complete mystery to him.
George let his mind wander to when he had first met Detective Stabler. Subconsciously he rubbed at the back of his head. The scar was still there, a constant reminder that in his profession, complacency oft meant death, or something like it.
They had shaken hands over Dr. Huang's desk, Elliot Stabler poorly hiding his frustration, resentment, and hostility. Not only was this Huang character taking the place of Elliot's favorite consulting shrink, he was a fed, he was alpha male no matter what Stabler tried to do and say to throw him off balance, he was a know-it-all, and there was no air of humanity within the psychiatrist. Professionalism and mechanical greetings coated a mechanical mind that, like a computer, could work out the formulae of the human mind in mere seconds and make the mere mortals, Stabler that is, look and feel inadequate in the intellectual department.
The two men had but one thing in common. They needed to interview a serial murderer who was on death row and set to be executed in less than seventy two hours. Between their efforts, and a few (dozens) strings pulled by Alex Cabot, they managed to get that interview.
The personality disorder of the inmate showed itself immediately, he couldn't help but try and shrink the shrink and the detective, get in their heads, make them tick. Stabler performed admirably, even joining the 'I hate psychiatrists' club the inmate had unofficially started.
"You're not liked. How does that make you feel?" the inmate had asked mockingly, and George Huang, instead of getting offended, let a look of thoughtfulness cross his face.
"Insightful," he had replied, to the great amusements of the inmate and Stabler both.
Time passed in a nearly worthless interview, and then Huang had called for the guards to let him and Stabler out of the cell.
"Oh, don't worry, the guards are changing shifts. They won't help you for at least another two minutes," the inmate had informed, and suddenly, and for the first time that interview, Huang had felt a stab of fear.
"Elliot, get away from the table!" he cried, and within the second, the inmate had upended the table and nearly pinned Stabler to the wall with it. The next thing George Huang remembered, the inmates hands collided violently with his throat, slamming him into the wall. He was less than conscious as he slid down the wall, his head leaving a blood trail on the way down. The inmate was now occupied fighting a guy his own size, and George couldn't remember anything until he awoke in the hospital with the worst migraine he'd ever had.
George frowned. It was one of the first mistakes of his career, and it had hurt like hell. After Stabler had visited him in the hospital (just to say 'I told you so', not for any sentimental reasons) he hoped he'd learned a little humility. It had been fun, being alpha dog for a while, but look at the consequences. But that wasn't a missed profile. He just hadn't noticed the inmate, whom he refused to put a name to, asking about the time so that he could gauge the change in guard shift. Adam White, well, Adam wouldn't be as smart as he liked others to think, but he was damn savvy, and he would do what it took to mess with anyone chasing him down. Just about anyone could purchase a copy of the DSM series, read about personality disorders…White could simply read about himself and tweak his personal details to confound those that sought to apprehend, or better yet kill, him. To change a personality disorder simply took pure determination, and that, White had aplenty.
A knock at the office door brought George back from his contemplation, and he turned his chair back around to face the door instead of the window. "It's not locked," he called, and the door opened to reveal one Olivia Benson.
"Thought I might find you here," she said, closing the door after herself and taking a seat across from George, leaning on her elbows against the desk. "I thought that, after all this crap, you might need someone to talk to. God knows you've listened to me enough."
George allowed the smallest, slightest smile. Olivia was not just a coworker, he considered her to be a very dear friend. Chalk another reason Stabler hated him, but George knew that of the few people he had that he could talk to, Olivia would always be honest with him. He knew he was perhaps the only person besides Cragen that had ever seen Olivia cry, and there was a certain trust in that, a special sort of bond that had nothing to do with work or romance. It was friendship, and he valued it.
"I'll always listen, Olivia," he replied. "Especially to my friends. What did you want to talk about?"
"Actually, I was going to ask you the same question," Olivia told him, with 'that look' in her eyes, the one that was famous around the stationhouse. Olivia was like a pit bull, in that once she got her teeth into something, she just didn't let go. It made her a great cop, and a difficult person to hide things from.
Author's Note: Damn! Sorry about the wait…how long was it? Way too long, anyway. If Heron doesn't update in long bouts of time, it's either due to dysfunctional health or a broken computer. Neither of which is really an excuse, sorry. By the way, Heron also doesn't have email anymore, so she'll be able to reply to reviews but not to private messages. Heron also apologizes for the friggin' short chapter, but Heron wanted to throw something out to make up for the months-long deficit. (Cries pitifully). Heron is sooooooo sorry!!!!!!!! Heron loves you all! Can you forgive Heron? Please? (Large, teary, animated eyes, trembling lip, the whole nine yards) Free Hugs! (nudge, wink)