Red (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} hellogaynow) wrote,@ 2006-05-13 21:33:00 |
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[SVU] If It Isn't Her - Part One
Title: If It Isn't Her
Pairing: O/A, and... sort of O/C
Summary: Olivia takes a day off to piece together her past and chooses writing as an outlet.
Author's Notes: My girlfriend is completely responsible for my newfound addiction to SVU/Mariska, and is therefore to thank for this fanfic. She is also who insisted I post. I began writing it out of boredom and a mere desire to begin writing something again, but now I'm stuck and love it. Hopefully you will love it, my first fanfic ever, as well.
How long?
Words don’t really mean something unless you let them. Syllables and letters thrown together in a blender will not produce magnificent poetry unless you assign emotions to them, and even then there is no guarantee.
It’s kind of the same with people. I’ve been thrown into a blender I like to call the “dating scene” far too many times with all the wrong syllables and letters. We’d get coffee, dinner and a movie, go out dancing, and in the end they were all stale, tasteless, and stepping on my feet. Eventually I gave up and focused my energy on my work. My passion began to shift from well matured wine and sweat glistened skin to rape victims and children, which, if you consider all the other possible choices, isn’t all that bad. Those emotions which for years defined me turned hard and cold, and I began to give up.
She was unexpected. Blonde, beautiful, intelligent, charismatic…. Her presence brought about curiosity and some fear at first, watching us closely for job-related stress and possible psychoses, but something about the curve of her neck and the way she moved brought about a feeling of calm and trust. Alex—Alexandra Cabot—soon became the SVU’s ADA, as though someone had granted me a wish. The sight of her always tested the communication between my brain and lungs, but I shrugged it off. Admiration, I thought, but that didn’t last too long. We were always sneaking glances, touching hands. It was far too electric to ignore, and definitely too far gone to turn back. The fact that she was female never bothered me. Actually, I had previously wondered and fantasized, but I assumed all women—all people of both genders—had those thoughts. Before I knew it I was in love, and neither of us could get enough of each other. It was all we could have ever asked for.
Until she left. While I understood the situation and the amount of danger she was in, and was grateful for the cooperation of individuals able to help protect her, I still shook inside with the thought of having to spend time apart from her. It was for the best, for her protection, I reminded myself repeatedly, but the words just weren’t enough. Our goodbye had to be brief, but it wasn’t brief enough to end without the pressure of the build-up of tears forming behind my eyes. All I could think was she would be back in my arms soon.
“How long?” I asked. No answer. She didn’t need one. She grimaced and swallowed hard before Agent Hammond urged her to enter the vehicle and leave. “I love you.” The tears pushed their way out, pushing so forcefully it almost seemed as though it was battling the strength of both of us. The look in her eyes, the trembling of her bottom lip—we erupted into sobs together just before she turned and left.
And she was gone. For good. My Alex was in trouble and my arms were not safe enough for her.
***
Olivia stared at her computer and sighed. The clock’s hour hand had danced a quarter of the way around the circle and she had a day consumed by an outrageous case ahead of her. She couldn’t sleep, though. She tried, but all she could think about was Alex. It had been just over four weeks since the blonde had been back in New York testifying against the man who had tried to kill her and, ordered to take a day off to get her head together by Captain Cragen, Olivia was trying to put pieces together using words.
***
I retreated. Curled up in the dismal hole that is my bedroom, my comforter wrapped so tightly around me no air could worm through. I have been alone before in my life. I had sung myself to sleep for years as a child, realizing early on that my loneliness was not a matter of having no one around, but rather being forced into taking on the responsibility of raising myself, and cleaning up pools of vomit next to the face of my unconscious mother. I grew up far earlier than I should have, and because of this I related to those around me hardly at all.
How terrible is it to say you were in your thirties before you fell in love for the first time? To say you never understood “butterflies” before a beautiful young 30-something woman nodded her head at you, a deep sultry voice nearly whispering, “Hello, Detective Benson. I look forward to working with you.”
With Alex I was never alone. Even when surrounded by the thickest, heaviest silence you could imagine, loneliness was farther away from me then than ever before. She understood, she listened, and she asked for nothing from me. I would have given her everything, though. My best friend and lover, Alex was everything to me, and without her I felt empty.
Casey Novak, Alex’s ADA-successor, was a savior of sorts. Her offer of friendship and a hand to squeeze blue whenever Alex’s absence became too much kept me together (at least my outward appearance, ignoring how broken and distraught I was inside). Miserable with attempts at opening up and confessing my darkest thoughts, I found myself more and more able as Casey and I spent more evenings together wandering the streets of NYC with our favorite coffee burning the backs of our throats. As a child, even an adolescent, I was uninterested in self-revealing conversations, but Casey had a way of getting the information (and tears) out of me without me noticing. I’d spill my life story to her in a matter of minutes, not having a clue as to what I had done until her hand was holding mine, a tissue curled inside the two. It was obvious to me then that what I needed most in my life was someone to tell me everything would be alright, and she never hesitated.
“Hey, you feel like a cup of coffee?”
The attorney smiled warmly, gratefully, admitting, “Every second of every day.”
At the risk of sounding selfish, I never asked for what happened with Casey. In my nightly thoughts while failing to sleep I requested specifically for a simple friendship to help me cope, and it seemed the request was granted, but I began to notice complications. In our hour long confessions to the hardly visible NYC sky I began to notice her body was speaking in unexpected volumes to mine… and I wasn’t completely ignoring them.
Title: If It Isn't Her
Pairing: O/A, and... sort of O/C
Summary: Olivia takes a day off to piece together her past and chooses writing as an outlet.
Author's Notes: My girlfriend is completely responsible for my newfound addiction to SVU/Mariska, and is therefore to thank for this fanfic. She is also who insisted I post. I began writing it out of boredom and a mere desire to begin writing something again, but now I'm stuck and love it. Hopefully you will love it, my first fanfic ever, as well.
How long?
Words don’t really mean something unless you let them. Syllables and letters thrown together in a blender will not produce magnificent poetry unless you assign emotions to them, and even then there is no guarantee.
It’s kind of the same with people. I’ve been thrown into a blender I like to call the “dating scene” far too many times with all the wrong syllables and letters. We’d get coffee, dinner and a movie, go out dancing, and in the end they were all stale, tasteless, and stepping on my feet. Eventually I gave up and focused my energy on my work. My passion began to shift from well matured wine and sweat glistened skin to rape victims and children, which, if you consider all the other possible choices, isn’t all that bad. Those emotions which for years defined me turned hard and cold, and I began to give up.
She was unexpected. Blonde, beautiful, intelligent, charismatic…. Her presence brought about curiosity and some fear at first, watching us closely for job-related stress and possible psychoses, but something about the curve of her neck and the way she moved brought about a feeling of calm and trust. Alex—Alexandra Cabot—soon became the SVU’s ADA, as though someone had granted me a wish. The sight of her always tested the communication between my brain and lungs, but I shrugged it off. Admiration, I thought, but that didn’t last too long. We were always sneaking glances, touching hands. It was far too electric to ignore, and definitely too far gone to turn back. The fact that she was female never bothered me. Actually, I had previously wondered and fantasized, but I assumed all women—all people of both genders—had those thoughts. Before I knew it I was in love, and neither of us could get enough of each other. It was all we could have ever asked for.
Until she left. While I understood the situation and the amount of danger she was in, and was grateful for the cooperation of individuals able to help protect her, I still shook inside with the thought of having to spend time apart from her. It was for the best, for her protection, I reminded myself repeatedly, but the words just weren’t enough. Our goodbye had to be brief, but it wasn’t brief enough to end without the pressure of the build-up of tears forming behind my eyes. All I could think was she would be back in my arms soon.
“How long?” I asked. No answer. She didn’t need one. She grimaced and swallowed hard before Agent Hammond urged her to enter the vehicle and leave. “I love you.” The tears pushed their way out, pushing so forcefully it almost seemed as though it was battling the strength of both of us. The look in her eyes, the trembling of her bottom lip—we erupted into sobs together just before she turned and left.
And she was gone. For good. My Alex was in trouble and my arms were not safe enough for her.
***
Olivia stared at her computer and sighed. The clock’s hour hand had danced a quarter of the way around the circle and she had a day consumed by an outrageous case ahead of her. She couldn’t sleep, though. She tried, but all she could think about was Alex. It had been just over four weeks since the blonde had been back in New York testifying against the man who had tried to kill her and, ordered to take a day off to get her head together by Captain Cragen, Olivia was trying to put pieces together using words.
***
I retreated. Curled up in the dismal hole that is my bedroom, my comforter wrapped so tightly around me no air could worm through. I have been alone before in my life. I had sung myself to sleep for years as a child, realizing early on that my loneliness was not a matter of having no one around, but rather being forced into taking on the responsibility of raising myself, and cleaning up pools of vomit next to the face of my unconscious mother. I grew up far earlier than I should have, and because of this I related to those around me hardly at all.
How terrible is it to say you were in your thirties before you fell in love for the first time? To say you never understood “butterflies” before a beautiful young 30-something woman nodded her head at you, a deep sultry voice nearly whispering, “Hello, Detective Benson. I look forward to working with you.”
With Alex I was never alone. Even when surrounded by the thickest, heaviest silence you could imagine, loneliness was farther away from me then than ever before. She understood, she listened, and she asked for nothing from me. I would have given her everything, though. My best friend and lover, Alex was everything to me, and without her I felt empty.
Casey Novak, Alex’s ADA-successor, was a savior of sorts. Her offer of friendship and a hand to squeeze blue whenever Alex’s absence became too much kept me together (at least my outward appearance, ignoring how broken and distraught I was inside). Miserable with attempts at opening up and confessing my darkest thoughts, I found myself more and more able as Casey and I spent more evenings together wandering the streets of NYC with our favorite coffee burning the backs of our throats. As a child, even an adolescent, I was uninterested in self-revealing conversations, but Casey had a way of getting the information (and tears) out of me without me noticing. I’d spill my life story to her in a matter of minutes, not having a clue as to what I had done until her hand was holding mine, a tissue curled inside the two. It was obvious to me then that what I needed most in my life was someone to tell me everything would be alright, and she never hesitated.
“Hey, you feel like a cup of coffee?”
The attorney smiled warmly, gratefully, admitting, “Every second of every day.”
At the risk of sounding selfish, I never asked for what happened with Casey. In my nightly thoughts while failing to sleep I requested specifically for a simple friendship to help me cope, and it seemed the request was granted, but I began to notice complications. In our hour long confessions to the hardly visible NYC sky I began to notice her body was speaking in unexpected volumes to mine… and I wasn’t completely ignoring them.
