Forgetting, You (Law and Order: SVU, Olivia/Alex for giantessmess)
Title: Forgetting, You
Written by: celeria (fic journal celfic)
Written for: giantessmess
Fandom: Law and Order: Special Victims Unit
Pairing: Olivia/Alex, Olivia/random guys
Rating: A hard R
Words: 1975
Warning: Lots of boysex, which apparently Mariska Olivia is very into now. Who knew.
Disclaimers: I don't own any of this, Dick Wolf does. Which is obvious, because if I owned them, I would change lots of things, starting with Olivia's hair.
Thanks to: aphrodite_mine for the beta, particularly because this is not her fandom.
Summary: You changed when she left. It's one of those thoughts that you'd prefer to forget, and so you do.
Forgetting, You
You changed when she left. Of course you did; it would have been impossible not to. At the time you didn't know whether it would be good or bad, but you knew it would happen, and the prospect was dizzying.
You watched the car roll down the road like a hearse, and it was over. The night changed colours before your eyes, and Elliot caught you before you hit the ground.
* * *
The first time with her was years ago, after you let Ashley Black leap joyfully back into her mother's arms, and Alex took you out and bought you drink after drink - beer, and then Diet Coke, because you knew that so many beers would make you more like your mother than you want to be - and let you talk. You never said a word about your mother, but Alex's eyes got serious every time you mentioned Ricki Austin, and you think she knew.
"I can't imagine," Alex said, tilting the bowl of peanuts so that the remaining ones dropped into her palm, "having a child and not even bothering to love her."
You could tell from the way she said it that she had always had a mother who had always loved her, and you said so, even though you could not imagine being that or wanting that.
"I do," Alex said. "She lives in New York too, moved down from Boston after my father died, to be closer to me. She's like that. She had a whole life there, but she needed me."
You wondered what it would be like to have a mother who needed you, instead of needing you to be quiet or out or not there at all. "Ricki Austin doesn't need her children," you said, gulping the Coke, the ice stinging your teeth. " I've never seen anyone less interested in her kids." Which of course you had. "I think what that must be like, what it must have been like for both of them, and I wish I could have done something."
"You did all you could," Alex said. It was probably supposed to be supportive, but it made you feel even worse, so you said nothing. "Ricki Austin made the choice to go on tour, not you."
"Can't you do anything?"
Alex finished her wine and sighed. "By going to Europe, she's flaunting the terms of the Article Ten. I can charge her again with impairment of health, possibly neglect or EWC, and I may be able to request a guardian ad litem for Ashley until Ricki gets back from Europe."
"EWC's a stretch," you said. "And Ashley never confirmed the drug use, and even if she had, Ricki and Jared aren't even in the country."
"I said possibly." Alex leveled a look at you over the frames of her glasses. "Come on, Olivia, you know what's going to happen. They're going to have another hearing, and I'm going to be in deep shit again, and she's going to go right back to that house. Is that what you want for her, Olivia? To be dragged in and out of court? Is that really what you want?"
And because you knew she was asking about you, not about Ashley, you nodded and finished your soda. You stood up and said, "I need to go to the bathroom," not because you did, but because you were starting to see spots of light in your eyes, and you needed to get out of there.
You remembered everything about that bar - the rippled grain of wood under your fingers, the glint of the dim hanging lights on Alex's hair, standing with your forehead pressed against the cold metal bathroom stall door. And you remembered everything about that night - the smell of snow on the sidewalks, the way she looked unbuttoning her shirt in her bedroom, her fingers cool and slender in your short hair. It was a hairstyle you'd never cared one way or the other about until you were touching her, your fingers curled inside her and your mouth on one bare pink nipple, no need to fling your hair back when it got in the way of what your tongue and teeth were doing.
For a long time, you could still remember everything. You unwrapped each memory like a gift at night, and you never wished you couldn't.
* * *
After she left, you spent the next year and a half sweeping her from your apartment in steps. First her toothbrush and toothpaste joined the clothes she kept in the second drawer of your dresser, and then they moved from the second drawer to the bottom, and then you threw away the toothpaste and packed everything else in a box in the closet. Just in case. Just if. After a while you grew to hate the sight of cardboard on the floor with your boots and bags and coats that you never bothered to hang up, and you moved it again, to the top shelf in the hall closet.
Your pillows still smelled like her, even after dozens of washings. When they finally stopped reminding you of the silk of her hair, you were scared because you knew you were beginning to forget.
Which, of course, was when she came back.
* * *
You hadn't expected her to hold onto you in the desperate, angry way you'd been holding onto her, but the new name and the new job and the new boyfriend were all a bit too much for you suddenly, and you swayed in a sea of perfectly matched hotel colour.
"Emily," you said, trying it out, and oddly enough she did look like an Emily, or maybe Emily looked like her. Her head was bent, her hands were clutching the edge of the table, and the way she refused to meet your eyes was so unlike Alex that you were willing to believe that she was a whole new person. With a boyfriend who whispered her name at night. "And do you …"
She was still looking at the floor. "No," she said. "I don't."
Remembering afterward, you wanted to believe that she was the one who moved first, who let go of the table and squeezed your hands instead and brought your mouths together. You wanted to think that she was the one who shed your coat, your shirt, your bra and tasted the edge of your breast while her fingers were sliding slick inside you.
But at this point you really can't remember how it happened, whether you kissed her first and apologized as you kissed her hair and her eyes and her mouth, or whether she was the one to start it. She was different, but the scent of her hair was the same, and it was like being in your bed again when you stripped her down to nothing on the floor and fucked her, two fingers inside her, tongue circling her clit, as she gasped and cried out your name and cried.
You'd been trying so hard to hold onto her, but you weren't surprised when she disappeared again, and then you had two people to mourn, an Alex and an Emily.
* * *
The first person you slept with after Alex was a man, you didn't actually know his whole name. His first name was Jefferson, and the steady way he shook your hand in the bar seemed to fit it. His last name was lost around the swallow of martini that he was taking, and by the time you were at his apartment, closing the door against the hallway light, it didn't seem to matter that you never caught it.
When he said your name, Olivia, four gasping syllables breathed into your hair, you managed to forget the way Alex called you Liv, making it as long as a sigh. You didn't say his name; it sounded too formal for his bed. You produced some grunts instead, yes yes oh, and he seemed satisfied with that as he came inside you.
Now you don't even have to think to make the appropriate sighs and moans. They come as easily as they did with her, and it's no longer an act. You're not sure if you should be grateful for that, but it makes it easier if you decide that you are.
* * *
In the six months since Alex disappeared again, you've gotten the drill down pat. You meet someone, an acquaintance, a friend of a friend, somebody's handsome single son, maybe for dinner, maybe for drinks, maybe for coffee, which translates to a walk home and sex. You suggest Central Park to one, the theater to another, and are pleasantly surprised when they agreed. You think you could get comfortable in this, maybe even lost in it, and it will become something you remember and smile and tell other people about when they ask how you met.
This latest one's name is Matthew. He works in advertising. He has a nice apartment in Manhattan and a cat named Chopper. He likes Vietnamese food, the rumble of the subway, and the funny ads on Craigslist. He did take you to see Spamalot eventually. He fucks you in a brisk, determined way, the way you imagine he must do business in his office, whatever kind of business advertising executives do.
He likes to run his fingers through your hair as you fall asleep, and you've let it grow long for the first time in six years. Sometimes you catch the image of yourself in the mirror, ruffling it the way he does with his hands.
God, who the hell are you?
* * *
Alex is your secret from everyone, except Elliot, who knows and never asks, the same way you never ask about Kathy. "It's been a long time," you said to Brian, or Ciaran, or Scott, or Matthew, when they asked. Often shrugging and concentrating on something else - pouring more wine, glancing at the bill, watching someone walk by with a dozen dogs on one leash - did the trick. "The job?" Brian/Ciaran/Scott/Matthew said, and you nodded, smiled, taking a sip or hunting up some cash or pointing out the puppies' stupid matching tartan sweaters.
In the beginning, right after she left again, you kept her for yourself and the nights you were alone. You could no longer smell her in your sheets, but you had your memories - fresh, from this time around - and you imagined the curtain of her hair brushing your face as you touched yourself. With your right hand fisting your sheets near your thigh, and your left reaching down awkwardly to push between damp folds of skin, you could almost pretend you were someone else. You could almost pretend you were Alex.
Lately you're at Matthew's almost every night, and Chopper likes to sleep between the sheets near your legs, and you think about her less and less. It occurs to you that once you start keeping a secret from everyone, you start keeping it from yourself. It's one of those thoughts that you'd prefer to forget, and so you do.
* * *
It's almost springtime again when Matthew asks you to marry him. He gets down on one knee and everything, and all around you people crowd and clap and "Aww" as the answer catches in your throat.
You're smiling and feeling just a little bit dizzy, and you ask, "Can we have a baby?"
And he nods, and whether he really means it or whether he's just saying yes so you'll say yes, you hug him and nod too.
* * *
Six weeks later, you hear that the woman called Caroline Forester is no longer dead, and that Alexandra Cabot is coming back to New York.
You pull your hair back into a ponytail, and wonder if she'll think you're different now.
finis.
Written by: celeria (fic journal celfic)
Written for: giantessmess
Fandom: Law and Order: Special Victims Unit
Pairing: Olivia/Alex, Olivia/random guys
Rating: A hard R
Words: 1975
Warning: Lots of boysex, which apparently Mariska Olivia is very into now. Who knew.
Disclaimers: I don't own any of this, Dick Wolf does. Which is obvious, because if I owned them, I would change lots of things, starting with Olivia's hair.
Thanks to: aphrodite_mine for the beta, particularly because this is not her fandom.
Summary: You changed when she left. It's one of those thoughts that you'd prefer to forget, and so you do.
Forgetting, You
You changed when she left. Of course you did; it would have been impossible not to. At the time you didn't know whether it would be good or bad, but you knew it would happen, and the prospect was dizzying.
You watched the car roll down the road like a hearse, and it was over. The night changed colours before your eyes, and Elliot caught you before you hit the ground.
* * *
The first time with her was years ago, after you let Ashley Black leap joyfully back into her mother's arms, and Alex took you out and bought you drink after drink - beer, and then Diet Coke, because you knew that so many beers would make you more like your mother than you want to be - and let you talk. You never said a word about your mother, but Alex's eyes got serious every time you mentioned Ricki Austin, and you think she knew.
"I can't imagine," Alex said, tilting the bowl of peanuts so that the remaining ones dropped into her palm, "having a child and not even bothering to love her."
You could tell from the way she said it that she had always had a mother who had always loved her, and you said so, even though you could not imagine being that or wanting that.
"I do," Alex said. "She lives in New York too, moved down from Boston after my father died, to be closer to me. She's like that. She had a whole life there, but she needed me."
You wondered what it would be like to have a mother who needed you, instead of needing you to be quiet or out or not there at all. "Ricki Austin doesn't need her children," you said, gulping the Coke, the ice stinging your teeth. " I've never seen anyone less interested in her kids." Which of course you had. "I think what that must be like, what it must have been like for both of them, and I wish I could have done something."
"You did all you could," Alex said. It was probably supposed to be supportive, but it made you feel even worse, so you said nothing. "Ricki Austin made the choice to go on tour, not you."
"Can't you do anything?"
Alex finished her wine and sighed. "By going to Europe, she's flaunting the terms of the Article Ten. I can charge her again with impairment of health, possibly neglect or EWC, and I may be able to request a guardian ad litem for Ashley until Ricki gets back from Europe."
"EWC's a stretch," you said. "And Ashley never confirmed the drug use, and even if she had, Ricki and Jared aren't even in the country."
"I said possibly." Alex leveled a look at you over the frames of her glasses. "Come on, Olivia, you know what's going to happen. They're going to have another hearing, and I'm going to be in deep shit again, and she's going to go right back to that house. Is that what you want for her, Olivia? To be dragged in and out of court? Is that really what you want?"
And because you knew she was asking about you, not about Ashley, you nodded and finished your soda. You stood up and said, "I need to go to the bathroom," not because you did, but because you were starting to see spots of light in your eyes, and you needed to get out of there.
You remembered everything about that bar - the rippled grain of wood under your fingers, the glint of the dim hanging lights on Alex's hair, standing with your forehead pressed against the cold metal bathroom stall door. And you remembered everything about that night - the smell of snow on the sidewalks, the way she looked unbuttoning her shirt in her bedroom, her fingers cool and slender in your short hair. It was a hairstyle you'd never cared one way or the other about until you were touching her, your fingers curled inside her and your mouth on one bare pink nipple, no need to fling your hair back when it got in the way of what your tongue and teeth were doing.
For a long time, you could still remember everything. You unwrapped each memory like a gift at night, and you never wished you couldn't.
* * *
After she left, you spent the next year and a half sweeping her from your apartment in steps. First her toothbrush and toothpaste joined the clothes she kept in the second drawer of your dresser, and then they moved from the second drawer to the bottom, and then you threw away the toothpaste and packed everything else in a box in the closet. Just in case. Just if. After a while you grew to hate the sight of cardboard on the floor with your boots and bags and coats that you never bothered to hang up, and you moved it again, to the top shelf in the hall closet.
Your pillows still smelled like her, even after dozens of washings. When they finally stopped reminding you of the silk of her hair, you were scared because you knew you were beginning to forget.
Which, of course, was when she came back.
* * *
You hadn't expected her to hold onto you in the desperate, angry way you'd been holding onto her, but the new name and the new job and the new boyfriend were all a bit too much for you suddenly, and you swayed in a sea of perfectly matched hotel colour.
"Emily," you said, trying it out, and oddly enough she did look like an Emily, or maybe Emily looked like her. Her head was bent, her hands were clutching the edge of the table, and the way she refused to meet your eyes was so unlike Alex that you were willing to believe that she was a whole new person. With a boyfriend who whispered her name at night. "And do you …"
She was still looking at the floor. "No," she said. "I don't."
Remembering afterward, you wanted to believe that she was the one who moved first, who let go of the table and squeezed your hands instead and brought your mouths together. You wanted to think that she was the one who shed your coat, your shirt, your bra and tasted the edge of your breast while her fingers were sliding slick inside you.
But at this point you really can't remember how it happened, whether you kissed her first and apologized as you kissed her hair and her eyes and her mouth, or whether she was the one to start it. She was different, but the scent of her hair was the same, and it was like being in your bed again when you stripped her down to nothing on the floor and fucked her, two fingers inside her, tongue circling her clit, as she gasped and cried out your name and cried.
You'd been trying so hard to hold onto her, but you weren't surprised when she disappeared again, and then you had two people to mourn, an Alex and an Emily.
* * *
The first person you slept with after Alex was a man, you didn't actually know his whole name. His first name was Jefferson, and the steady way he shook your hand in the bar seemed to fit it. His last name was lost around the swallow of martini that he was taking, and by the time you were at his apartment, closing the door against the hallway light, it didn't seem to matter that you never caught it.
When he said your name, Olivia, four gasping syllables breathed into your hair, you managed to forget the way Alex called you Liv, making it as long as a sigh. You didn't say his name; it sounded too formal for his bed. You produced some grunts instead, yes yes oh, and he seemed satisfied with that as he came inside you.
Now you don't even have to think to make the appropriate sighs and moans. They come as easily as they did with her, and it's no longer an act. You're not sure if you should be grateful for that, but it makes it easier if you decide that you are.
* * *
In the six months since Alex disappeared again, you've gotten the drill down pat. You meet someone, an acquaintance, a friend of a friend, somebody's handsome single son, maybe for dinner, maybe for drinks, maybe for coffee, which translates to a walk home and sex. You suggest Central Park to one, the theater to another, and are pleasantly surprised when they agreed. You think you could get comfortable in this, maybe even lost in it, and it will become something you remember and smile and tell other people about when they ask how you met.
This latest one's name is Matthew. He works in advertising. He has a nice apartment in Manhattan and a cat named Chopper. He likes Vietnamese food, the rumble of the subway, and the funny ads on Craigslist. He did take you to see Spamalot eventually. He fucks you in a brisk, determined way, the way you imagine he must do business in his office, whatever kind of business advertising executives do.
He likes to run his fingers through your hair as you fall asleep, and you've let it grow long for the first time in six years. Sometimes you catch the image of yourself in the mirror, ruffling it the way he does with his hands.
God, who the hell are you?
* * *
Alex is your secret from everyone, except Elliot, who knows and never asks, the same way you never ask about Kathy. "It's been a long time," you said to Brian, or Ciaran, or Scott, or Matthew, when they asked. Often shrugging and concentrating on something else - pouring more wine, glancing at the bill, watching someone walk by with a dozen dogs on one leash - did the trick. "The job?" Brian/Ciaran/Scott/Matthew said, and you nodded, smiled, taking a sip or hunting up some cash or pointing out the puppies' stupid matching tartan sweaters.
In the beginning, right after she left again, you kept her for yourself and the nights you were alone. You could no longer smell her in your sheets, but you had your memories - fresh, from this time around - and you imagined the curtain of her hair brushing your face as you touched yourself. With your right hand fisting your sheets near your thigh, and your left reaching down awkwardly to push between damp folds of skin, you could almost pretend you were someone else. You could almost pretend you were Alex.
Lately you're at Matthew's almost every night, and Chopper likes to sleep between the sheets near your legs, and you think about her less and less. It occurs to you that once you start keeping a secret from everyone, you start keeping it from yourself. It's one of those thoughts that you'd prefer to forget, and so you do.
* * *
It's almost springtime again when Matthew asks you to marry him. He gets down on one knee and everything, and all around you people crowd and clap and "Aww" as the answer catches in your throat.
You're smiling and feeling just a little bit dizzy, and you ask, "Can we have a baby?"
And he nods, and whether he really means it or whether he's just saying yes so you'll say yes, you hug him and nod too.
* * *
Six weeks later, you hear that the woman called Caroline Forester is no longer dead, and that Alexandra Cabot is coming back to New York.
You pull your hair back into a ponytail, and wonder if she'll think you're different now.
finis.