enretrogue - Tumblr blog

enretrogue · 13 days ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞

content warnings! smut, age gap, fauxcest, spanking, oral (reader receiving), fingering (reader receiving), handjobs, masturbation, dacryphilia, dubcon, alcohol consumption, daddy kink, father figure!sonny, usage of the word ‘kid,’ afab reader uses she/her pronouns, mdni!

synopsis! in which you come home after one too many drinks, and your father figure dishes out a unique punishment.

wc! 2.5k+

author’s note! hey! this is my first fic in 5 years, but my first here on tumblr. i outgrew and abandoned my canonical teenage wattpad era, but i’m yearning for it again, so i am slowly coming back to writing. i’m a stem major with a busy schedule, so my passion for literature is never satiated. hope you enjoy! <3

━━━━━━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━━━━━━━

𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐈 was no stranger to burning the midnight oil. Working well past midnight--office dimly lit, the poor, almost pathetic, desk lamp working overtime nearly burnt out from years of abuse. The soft light of the moon, beaming across various stacks of files and documents strewn about, served better as his light for the night.

With the job of Manhattan’s Assistant District Attorney, working within the Sex Crimes Bureau, this was routine. The former Special Victims Unit detective was now turned into a seasoned, albeit gray-haired, formidable lawyer.

At the current hour, Sonny was fully expecting his ward for all intensive purposes to be sleeping in her bedroom. Sonny was a longtime friend of her family, going as far back as a few generations. Her family resided in Staten Island for a time, before up and moving. Nevertheless, the Carisi clan maintained a close, strong relationship with them.

She had a complicated life, to say the least. She was a good kid, a Columbia student. Her parents, however, were divorced. She resented her father, and rightfully so. He was a pathetic excuse of a man. So when it came time for her to attend university, Sonny offered her a place to stay in his apartment to save some money. And to keep an eye on her.

He was her father figure, having served as a role model all her life.

So when the silver-haired counselor hears the front door open, followed by the sound of feet stumbling across the hardwood, he raises a brow. He glances at the clock. It’s two in the morning. The next sounds he hears is her fumbling with her bedroom door knob.

Yeah. She’s drunk.

He sighs, and runs a hand down his face before rising to his feet, and walks over to her. He can practically smell the alcohol on her from a state away. Sure, she’s of drinking age, but it still doesn’t sit right with him, obviously.

“Where have you been?” He asks firmly, concern also painting his tone.

She furrows her brow. “Out.” She giggles drunkenly. “Duh.” She is normally so poised and put together. And she’s the complete opposite. A mini skirt and corset top show off her figure, leaving very little to the imagination. Her makeup is slightly smudged, hair a bit mussed. She’s in no way a frequent drinker. She was sweet, intelligent.

“Okay, smart ass. Sweetheart, how much have ya had to drink tonight?”

“Umm…” She starts, clearly thinking, biting her lower lip in concentration. “More than three.” She deduces, slightly slurring her words. She’s tipsy, borderline drunk, but not there. Thankfully.

“And who were ya out with, hm? And where. I want bar and club names, ya hear?” Sonny probes.

She pouts. “No need to cross examine.” She whines.

He raises a brow. “Don’t sass me. You’re in a world of trouble.”

She grumbles, listing off her usual friends and the names of the bars they went to. “I’m an adult. Why are you so pissed?”

“Because I’m the one takin’ care of ya. You’re livin’ under my roof. Don’t do this again.” He replies with exasperation, disappointment and concern in his voice.

“Sorry, daddy,” She muses sarcastically, alcohol present in her words. Sonny froze. She stumbles into her bedroom, and begins taking her makeup off. While she sits there as if she did nothing, his mind is a complete and utter mess. He can feel himself growing aroused at the words that just left her pretty, burgundy stained lips. He shakes his head before resuming his lecturing.

“Don’t you ‘daddy’ me. You’re in trouble.” He states, attempting to regain control and authority of the situation.

“I don’t see you doing anything.” She jests, alcohol loosening her inhibitions. Sonny’s jaw clenches at her challenge. Little brat.

He narrows his eyes, then he starts moving. He stands in front of her, arms crossed, closing the distance between them in a mere few strides. Sonny stops in front of her. “You need an attitude adjustment. You’re being nothin’ but a brat. All I want is to keep ya safe, sweetie.” His tone bears no room for argument. But knowing her, she’ll find a way.

“I’m an adult. I don’t need my damn attitude adjusted.” She refutes. She was a sassy one, but this is sass and alcohol talking.

“And that is exactly why you need an attitude adjustment.” Sonny all but spits out. He raises his eyebrow. “Get over here. Now,” He orders, sitting on her bed. She rolls her eyes, reluctantly sitting on her bed.

She’s suddenly maneuvered to lay across his lap, on her stomach. “You wanna act like a fuckin’ baby? Then I’ll treat ya like one. Little brat” He rasps firmly.

Without warning, his large hand comes down firmly on her ass. He’s expecting a help of surprise, a cry of pain, something. And she whimpers, hips involuntarily canting up into his hand.

“Oh honey,” He whispers mockingly, “Do you like this?”

She turns red, color dusting her cheeks and nose. “N-No.” She defends, miserably.

“No? You don’t like it?” His hand comes back down again, and she keens, biting her lower lip. She squirms under his grip. The alcohol, combined with this newfound fetish he’s uncovered is driving her insane.

“Sure ya aren’t gettin’ off on this?” He probes. His hand delivers another blow to her backside, and she openly moans, hands flailing to grab the sheets. “Oh, I know, baby. Feels good, yeah? Not supposed to like ya punishment, though.”

Though their relationship had never shifted into anything sexual, there was absolutely an unspoken quality between them. Sonny couldn’t doubt that she was an enticing young woman, who fit his type perfectly. And she always found him incredibly attractive, despite the age difference.

As he continues delivering spanks, her sounds crescendo to well beyond forte, hips moving upwards, wanting more of his touch, wanting his hand lower.

“Let’s see how much of a brat you’ve been, honey.” Sonny coos mockingly. He pushes her tiny, practically miniscule skirt up past her thighs.

“Look at that sweetheart,” He whispers. Her ass is encased in a skimpy black lacy thong. His hand delivers a particularly sharp spank to her bottom, which is now nearly bare. The contact of the blow on bare skin makes her louder.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she moans breathily, tears streaming down her cheeks, burgundy nails still clawing at her sheets. Color has bloomed across her bottom. Red and pink bursts adorn the skin, most of them in the shape of his large hands.

Her thighs clench. He tuts disapprovingly, peeling her thighs apart. The aching between her legs is unbearable. Heat is pooling in her belly, like molten honey. Close to bursting.

Her tears are from arousal, pain, and frustration, all rolled into an intoxicating, dangerous mix. “You better be fuckin’ sorry. Prancin’ around Manhattan damn near naked, drunk off ya ass.” Sonny rasps. His slacks are painfully tight, unbearably so. Seeing her form nearly bare, hot tears glimmering down her cheeks, fuels the dangerous inferno rushing to his lower abdomen.

She keeps whining and begging for his touch. “Shush. Naughty little thing. I’ll give ya what ya what. Quit that whinin’ sweetie.” Sonny orders. “Up.” He commands.

She lifts her hips slightly, obeying him for the first time that night. He slides the offensive garment down her legs, throwing it god knows where in the corner of her room. He shifts, and lays down, back propped up against the headboard. He sits in her in his lap, and spreads her thighs as wide as they can possibly go.

His hand traces her sternum, stomach, lower abdomen, before finally delving down to her cunt. Her hips jolt and she moans at the contact. He coats his fingers in her slick, running them through her folds. “Guess you really did like ya spankin’ baby.” He chuckles.

She’s pulsing and clenching against nothing, dripping onto her green floral sheets. His fingers find their way to her clit, the sensitive bundle of nerves throbbing, and hard. Her mouth falls open into a soft gasp. Sonny begins to rub her clit, starting slow and soft, before increasing to a rapid pace. “Thank you, Daddy,” she mewls loudly, spread legs shaking.

“That’s it, baby. There ya go,” Sonny praises. “Jus’ feel.”

Her eyes roll back. “Yes, yes, oh my god,” she babbles aimlessly, telling him how good she feels. She drips down his fingers, soaking him down to the wrist. The heat in her lower belly is like a coil, threatening to snap as he torments her throbbing cunt with overwhelming pleasure.

“Doin’ so good, sweetie. Makin’ Daddy proud,” He murmurs. She moans loudly when he refers to himself as Daddy, and his digits are met with a gush of her arousal. Everything is so hot. Too hot, even. The room is thick with tension, filled with the depraved symphony of her noises of pleasure, and soft, wet sounds of her pussy.

“I—oh god, I’m gonna cum—” she wails, her own sounds of pleasure cutting her words off, breathing erratically. Such a sensitive thing, not being able to last long. Only a few touches to her clit and her mind was already melting to mush.

“Yeah? Already? Damn kids don’t know patience these days,” Sonny murmurs. He speeds up his fingers. “Do it. Cum all over daddy’s fuckin’ fingers,” he groans.

Her orgasm washes over her, akin to a strong tidal wave. Her jaw falls open and she sobs and wails. Her hips cant up into his touch, a weak attempt to grind against his fingers. Sonny continues to work her through it, whereas this is the part where she would normally stop. He doesn’t let up, rubbing her to full satisfaction, driving her headfirst into slight overstimulation.

“Oh, good girl. That was a big one for you, baby, huh?” Sonny whispers, withdrawing his hand, wiping them clean on her sorry excuse of a top. She whimpers. Sonny’s hands undo her top, tossing it elsewhere. His large hands grab at her tits, teasing them.

“‘M not fuckin’ done with you yet,” Sonny murmurs into her ear. “You can take one more, can’t you, princess?”

“I don’t know—” she starts, but is cut off. “Too bad. I wasn’t asking ya,” Sonny says firmly. He squeezes her tits one more time before removing his hands. He slides down off the bed, settling onto his knees. He knows his back would be screaming at him later, but this would be so worth it in the end. His hands pull her closer and spread her legs again, exposing herself to him once more.

“Oh, look at that. Such a pretty little pussy, sweetheart,” Sonny mumbles, kisses down her stomach, lower abdomen, before his mouth finally finds her cunt, tongue licking a broad stripe from her the bottom to the very top of her slit, moaning into her at the newfound taste. He’s been holding out on her for too long. The grip on her thighs is bruising, and there will no doubt be purple and blue finger-shaped marks on her skin in the morning.

“Oh, god, daddy—it’s” she garbles. He chuckles against her. Two fingers come up to gently tease her hole. She whimpers. The two thick digits gently enter her dripping heat, causing her hips to buck up and grind on his face.

It’s as if his mind is on autopilot. His tongue finds her clit, and he purposely hums and moans against her, the vibration from the sound traveling straight to the sensitive pearl. She jolts and mewls at the sensation. His fingers drive and curl against that special spot inside her, one that he knows she’s most likely been unable to reach herself.

She’s moaning and whining softly, still sensitive from her previous orgasm she barely had a reprieve from. Her clit and her g-spot are being abused in the sweetest manner, and she unconsciously grinds her hips down on his tongue. He smiles against her as her sounds increase in frequency, volume, and pitch.

“You’re so sweet, baby,” he slurs reverently against her, juices dripping down from his mouth to chin, glistening. He feels as if he’s drunk, too, drunk on her cunt. She looks, feels, and tastes, ethereal. He would die a happy man between her plush thighs, if possible.

His lips wrap around her clit and he sucks hard. She sobs and wails. Between the hard thrusts of his fingers against her g-spot, the borderline painful stimulation of her hypersensitive clit, she’s being pushed headfirst into a mind blowing orgasm.

“Daddy, ‘m gonna—” she squeals, before gushing all over his fingers and face. Her hips softly grind onto his face, legs clenched around his head, shaking. He helps her ride it out before pulling away, admiring her now abused and glistening cunt, clit now swollen. She can’t take anymore, and he recognizes that.

Her chest heaves as she attempts to catch her breath. The gold Cornicello necklace he had gifted her long ago rises and falls with her skin, resting between her pretty tits. It was a symbol of him, his protection, his love.

He rises to his feet. His cock is at full attention now, strained against his slacks. He unzips the offending fabric, fishing his length out. Sonny wraps his hand around himself, pace starting slow, before transitioning to furious strokes, the sound of his hand pumping his cock filling the room.

He works himself fast, brow furrowed, forehead lines crinkling with the effort. His usual neat, silver locks, are damp with sweat, wildly sticking out every which way. He pants, heavily, as he approaches his own orgasm, grunts escaping his lips. His free hand comes down, fondling his balls.

His piercing blue eyes fixate down on her as he strokes himself. He wonders what it would finally be like when he got to fuck her properly.

The thought of her tight and warm cunt pulsating around his cock, milking him, is enough to send him hurtling over the edge. Ropes of hot, sticky cum paint her breasts and stomach. He’s gifted her a pearl necklace in addition to the Cornicello.

“Oh, fucking Christ,” he groans as his body shudders and shakes. Her eyes are glassy and wide as she watches him. He withdraws his hand from his now twitching, spent length. He’s milked every last ounce of cum onto her body. “Good girl, baby. Such a good girl for ya Daddy. Look so pretty like this.”

In her dazed state, she mumbles a “Thank you, Daddy.” He chuckles and stands. He goes to the bathroom and retrieves a warm, damp cloth, returning to her bedroom, wiping his spend off her form. He’s not that mean to just leave his cum on her. She hums softly as he runs the cloth across her skin. After he cleans the last of it, he presses a kiss to her forehead.

He gently draws her covers over her. “Sleep, sweetie,” he mumbles. He stands and turns her desk lamp off.

“You’re not off the hook,” he says before he leaves the room. She whines softly in protest, but the exhaustion that has taken root in her is winning as she drifts off.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Fuckin’ kids,” he grumbles, and shuts her door.

#lala’s fic recs *ೃ༄#˚₊‧꒰ა aug ‘24 fic recs ໒꒱ ‧₊˚#sonny carisi fic recs #smut #nsfw

65 notes · View notes

enretrogue · 13 days ago

Text

𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐚

content warnings! smut, age gap, power dynamics (boss-employee relations), dubcon, coercion, penetrative vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering (reader receiving), daddy kink, breast play, praise kink, exhibitionism, choking kink, sensory deprivation, blindfolding, bondage, orgasm denial, overstimulation, dacryphilia, thigh riding, begging, afab reader uses she/her pronouns, mdni!

synopsis! ada dominick carisi, your ever-so-generous boss, assists you in studying for your upcoming lsat. all he wants is his pretty little paralegal to succeed.

wc! 3.4k+

author’s note! this is probably the wildest fic i’ve wrote so far. i wanted to get this one out before i return to the trenches (college), but i have my freedom back. i also had lock in to do some lsat research for this one.

a much needed dedication to my best friend @dancer545 is in order for this one. we’re interlinked on a cellular level, and our freak charts are very much aligned (low key this is also an apology gift for her since my school is four hours away). ily twin!!!! as always, hope you enjoy <3

━━━━━━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━━━━━━━

“𝐇𝐎𝐖’𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 LSAT prep coming, sweetheart?” Assistant District Attorney Dominick Carisi inquires, observing his paralegal from her place on his office’s sofa. It’s the dead of night, and she had just finished some last minute tasks for him. Even so, she is well within the depths of concentration, evidenced by her furrowed brow, eyes fixated on her test preparation booklet.

She looks up at him, reluctantly tearing her eyes from the current page she is on. “I have a good grasp on most of the material. There’s only a few questions that I’m not sure about yet,” she replies in her soft, euphonious tone. Despite her status as the Manhattan ADA’s paralegal, she was still an undergraduate student, deep into preparation for law school admissions. “All of my recent scores have been within the 160 range. I’m trying to get to above 170,” she shares.

“Honey, your scores are already phenomenal. Don’t stress yourself out too much, okay?” he says, and chuckles. “You’re practically already Lady Justice herself.” She smiles softly at the compliment.

Sonny served as the most ideal role model for her. She viewed him as a bearer of justice. A harbinger of law, and order. But the quality she admired the most about him was his empathy.

There was so much more to him than just his success, his status as a formidable attorney. She accredited that aspect to his upbringing, and to his former role as a Special Victims Unit detective. He didn’t solely care about carrying out the Eighth Floor’s, nor New York’s bidding. Or a paycheck. He genuinely cared about his clients.

He was everything an attorney, a good attorney, was supposed to be. Virtuous, principled, and dignified.

Naturally, she idolized him.

The silver-haired counselor beckons her over to his desk, drawing a chair around so she could join him. “C’mere. Let me help,” he says simply.

She pauses her writing. “Seriously? I’m sure you have much more pertinent matters to attend to with. Not some paralegal’s LSAT woes,” she asks sheepishly.

He chuckles, and shakes his head. “It’s late; I’m practically done for the day. You’re such a big help to me, honey. I’d be runnin’ around like a damn headless chicken without your organization to keep me grounded. It’s the least I can do for ya.”

After a beat, she stands, and sits beside him. “Good girl,” Sonny praises.

“Thank you,” she murmurs softly. “You’ve always been so nice to me.”

Sonny had always gone above and beyond for her, which might have read as abnormal. He’s gotten her flowers for her birthday, taken her out to celebrate after major victories.

What was the most touching to her was the fact that he would allow her to sit in on his closing argument rehearsals. To observe, take notes. Sometimes, he would even go as far to allow her to make her own, as if she was the prosecutor.

Being alone in court, just the two of them felt intimate. In her eyes, it felt sacred.

“Anytime, sweetheart. Smart girl like you? You’ll make a damn good lawyer,” he says, and chuckles. “Now, what exactly are ya struggling with, huh?” he probes as he eyes her Manhattan Review practice booklet.

She sighs. “I don’t have any major issues with the reading comprehension section. I’m doing better with the logical reasoning section, but there are just a few questions that I didn’t attempt.” The logical reasoning section was the Achilles’ Heel of many pre-law students, no matter how bright the mind was. It was intentionally designed in this specific way to force exam takers to really, truly think within time constraints.

He groans, remembering his own LSAT preparations from a lifetime ago. “I feel ya, honey. Just lookin’ at the ones you haven’t answered feels like ‘Nam flashbacks,” he chuckles. “Alright, let’s get this overwith.”

Every correct question results in phrases such as “good girl,” “such a smart girl,” “doin’ so well sweetheart,” and the works. Sonny had an entire dictionary of phrases kept in his mind to use for her, so it seemed.

To her, it seemed sweet. To him, whenever such words fell from his lips, he envisioned himself giving that praise as he fucked her stupid, too mindless to do nothing but babble incoherencies.

“Okay, I see why you skipped this one, honey. This one is a pain in the fuckin’ ass,” he huffed as he reads the next question. He gives her a moment to re-read the question.

“Is it…C?” She hesitates. “Historians sometimes assert that no political movement is genuinely original; each borrows its core ideas from a prior movement. If that were true, every prior movement would itself need an earlier source, producing an endless chain of borrowings—an impossibility. Thus the historians’ assertion must be wrong…?” She asks, voice faltering.

Sonny flips to the back of the booklet. “Atta girl,” he murmurs in her ear, sending shivers down her spine. “Only…59.1% of practice exam-takers chose C. See, college girl, the issue is these questions are designed to be so dense, it becomes insanely difficult to formulate a logical response.”

As they continue, his praise evolves from just words, to words and casual touches. A ruffling of the hair, shoulder pats, rubbing her arm.

He bites his lower lip as he observes her feeble, pathetic attempts to concentrate. Be it her youth, naïveté, or perhaps embarrassment, she believes that she cannot be read or analyzed; her reactions and thoughts are clandestine.

But he knows she likes it. She can’t even admit it to herself. He’s a prosecutor, a former detective. He has years of meticulous training under his belt to observe every single little, miniscule detail. She answers another question correctly, voice unsteady and meek.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he rasps, and without warning, leans down, pressing a kiss to her lips. The abruptness of the unforeseen gesture makes her shiver before she comes back to Earth, moving her lips in sync with his. She whimpers as he slides his tongue into her mouth, and surrenders, body going limp.

“How about this? I know ya aren’t too keen on finishin’ this section. I’m gonna offer you a deal. You get questions you get right, I’ll give ya a reward. How’s that sound?” Sonny purrs, pulling away from her lips, leaving her gasping softly.

“W-What kind of reward?” She breathes shakily. He doesn’t answer immediately, large hands instead beginning to roam her body, pulling her up onto his lap. He finds the buttons on her blue striped blouse, effortlessly undoing them to enter the offending top.

Her breath hitches as his hands wander her torso, shuddering every so often. His hands delve into her bra, cupping her tits from underneath the obstructive garment. Her jaw falls open in a soft, breathy moan as he pinches her nipples.

“Every question you answer correctly, one piece of your clothing comes off,” he whispers, pressing a chaste kiss to the spot just below her ear that he knows will make her body tremble. One of the hands on her breasts travels down, rubbing her thigh suggestively.

All she can do is nod. There was no possible way she could compose a complete, intellectual sentence.

With every correct question, his word prevails. Her blouse leaves her body first. Then her slacks. Her bra is tossed elsewhere in the office. Finally, he’s sliding off her panties, tantalizingly slow until they eventually hit the floor.

All he’s left her in is the scales of justice necklace that falls between her tits.

Sonny has a lap full of naked, squirming paralegal. Her eyes are wide and glassy. It’s clear that she is heavily questioning her reality. She looks up at him. “Am I done?” She asks softly, assuming she is, due to being completely stripped.

“Absolutely fuckin’ not. You need to keep studyin,’ your exam is in a week,” he hums. “Bet you’re soaked, huh?” he coos, and she whimpers at his words. She doesn’t answer.

One of his hands trails down to her dripping cunt, fingers circling her clit. He knows the heat is becoming unbearable for her, tension in her lower belly building.

She gasps and jolts at the sensation, biting at her lower lip to suppress any sounds that spill from her throat. The last thing she wants is to be caught red-handed in the act with her boss, of all people. She would never live down the humiliation.

“Uh-uh, lemme hear ya,” Sonny murmurs, and slides two thick fingers into her. She yelps in surprise, sounds fading into soft moans and whimpers as he begins to work her open.

His free hand flips to the next page, and he forces her to work through the set of problems while he builds a merciless pace, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit as his digits abuse her g-spot, causing a small puddle to form on his lap.

“Um…A?” She manages to whine between her moans. He knows she’s close, she’s right there. Her cunt is clenched so tight around his fingers, like she’s trying to milk them.

“Nuh uh, try again,” and he ceases all movement, making her cry out in protest. “Wait, ‘m so close—” she wails, and is cut off.

“I’m not letting you cum until ya get it right, baby. Try again f’me,” he says firmly.

She stifles a sob of frustration. She’s so close, she’s on the precipice of a mind blowing release. Reluctantly, she reads through the answers again. “It-it’s C,” she sniffles. “Please, can I cum now?” she begs, on the verge of tears. She moans, louder than before, when begins his relentless ministrations once more, tormenting her cunt.

“Yeah? Right there, huh?” he breathes mockingly. She nods frantically, sounds becoming higher in pitch and volume. “Oh, fuck, ‘m gonna—” she slurs, cutting her sentence off with a whine spilling from her lips.

“Good girl. Cum all over daddy’s fingers,” he rasps. Referring to himself as ‘daddy,’ is what drove her over the edge, gushing all over his fingers, babbling incoherent nonsense, orgasm falling over her in waves.

“Oh, good girl, baby. That’s it, take your reward. Makin’ me so proud,” he praises, continuing to gently drive his fingers into her. Her hands fly down, desperately grabbing his wrist as he makes her ride her high out. Her mouth falls open in a silent scream.

Sonny withdraws his fingers, and shifts her now pliable, limp form to straddle his thigh.

“What are you—” she starts, but sobs as he brings her down onto his thigh, forcing her to grind on it, gripping her hips so tight there are bound to be bruises on them when morning comes.

“Too much, Daddy, ‘s too much!” she whines, trying in vain to pathetically wiggle away from the contact of the fabric of his slacks on her now hypersensitive clit.

“But I thought you wanted to cum, sweetheart,” Sonny coos mockingly, and flexes his thigh underneath her, causing her body to shake as he grinds her up and down, not allowing her a moment of reprieve nor recovery in the slightest.

“Ya gotta remember that. What’ve I been tellin’ ya? Can’t leave any arguments up for assumption in court, right?” He chuckles darkly, going as far as to give her further legal advice while torturing her poor pussy. Despite the overstimulation and the sick taunting, she can feel another orgasm approaching, entirely too fast for her body to handle.

“P-Please, I can’t, need a break,” she weeps as her thighs tremble, her slick leaving a damp stain on his trousers. All he does is give her a smile of sadistic satisfaction. He stops controlling her shaky form, and she foolishly thinks he has taken pity on her.

Instead, he ends up removing his tie, wrapping the fabric around her head to shroud her eyes. He fastens it in the back and she involuntarily whimpers. She is unable to get a reading on his face, unable to see what he’s doing. It makes her shiver with worry, along with anticipation, not knowing what he has planned for her.

His hands grip her hips with the same unrelenting force as before, leading her to believe that he’s going to bounce her on his thigh again. But in her dazed and confused state, she didn’t register the sound of his belt being unbuckled, pants being unzipped, or even the fabric falling to the floor beneath him.

Sonny brings her back down, and she gasps audibly as she feels the head of his cock notch at her entrance. Her hands fumble around, in an attempt to steady herself, and finally find purchase on his shoulders.

“Shh. Can you be good for daddy?” He asks softly. The way he switched so effortlessly between merciless to solicitous and sweet made her head spin. It was a dizzying dichotomy, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was doing so purposely.

After a beat, she nods, having seemingly fallen under his spell. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move how she wanted to. Hell, she couldn’t even think right.

He’s completely and utterly clouded her senses, taken control of her body, turned her mind into mush so the one thing she’s certain of is him. She’s at his command.

He hums approvingly, and gently sinks her down onto his length, until he’s buried to the hilt. She croaks out a weak cry, adjusting to the stretch, walls fluttering to accommodate his size.

“Look at you. So pretty, sweetheart,” Sonny groans, head slightly tipped back. The sight of her blindfolded, speared on his cock nearly makes him cum on the spot. “You doin’ okay?”

“I can feel you in my fucking throat,” she manages to squeak out.

“That can be arranged,” he answers smugly. She can practically see his smirk through the tie. He gently begins to move her up and down on his length. Her soft whimpers and whines of discomfort gradually turn into moans and soft cries.

“You’re already fuckin’ creamin’ on me,” he rasps out, observing the said ring that’s formed around the base of his cock, all from her. He bounces her faster and harder on his lap, grinning as her sounds reach a crescendo, legs shaking, heat pooling in her lower belly.

Tears begin to soak through the fabric of the tie. She’s cursing, slurring her words, incoherencies spilling from her throat. “This suits you, ya know. Now you’re really impartial, sweetheart,” he moans.

The realization washes over her. The blindfold. Impartiality. Sonny had often affectionately referred to her as a modern-day reincarnation of Lady Justice, due to her wit, principles, and determination. Guilt and white-hot arousal course through her veins. To her, it feels blasphemous. Being fucked while depicting the very personification of the morals she is supposed to uphold, to one day swear an oath to. The symbol she wears around her throat, the one she sees every single day.

One of Sonny’s hands comes down to between where their bodies meet, fingers beginning to rub her clit again, all while effortlessly still forcing her to ride him. “Fuck, oh god-” she croaks, “Take-take it off,” she begs, attempting to claw at the tie that covers her eyes; she wants to see him.

She’s completely at his mercy, a truly pathetic display. “Yeah? You want it off, huh?” He mocks, grinning as she begs. “Please, daddy, please, wan’ it off,” she garbles. He gives in to her pleas. “We’ll compromise,” he chuckles. He removes the tie from her face, and instead ties it around her wrists. “Good girl. You just earned yourself your first plea deal,” he praises, the legal jargon going over her head.

“Fuckin’- get over here,” Sonny suddenly curses, and unceremoniously shifts her onto her back, so she lays atop his desk, before roughly thrusting back into her.

His hips plow into hers, thrusting into her soaked cunt, eyes glazed over as if he’s intoxicated. Her head is spinning, tears freely flowing down her cheeks. “‘S’good, daddy!” She cries brokenly. “Look at you, cryin’ over my cock. Filthy girl,” he grunts. The desk creaks with the effort of his thrusts, adding to the disgusting cacophony of sounds that fill his office.

One of his hands gently wraps around her throat, squeezing lightly. Ecstasy runs rampant through her veins, and her eyes flutter close as her jaw drops, a squeal escaping her. “‘M’gonna-” she starts. He doubles down in his efforts, thrusting into her tight heat at a bruising pace, angled perfectly to abuse that special spot inside her. She claws at his shoulders, legs shaking of their own accord as her cries border on desperate.

“You close, huh?” He groans, sweat beginning to bead across his forehead, face lines crinkled at his unyielding effort as he pounds into her. “Cum all over daddy,” he orders. The simple order is enough to send her hurtling over the edge. The band that had been tightening in her lower body finally snaps, and she sobs out as she gushes onto his cock, a puddle of her own slick forming on the pristine wood of the desk.

Despite her earth-shattering release, she manages to wrap her legs around him, ankles crossed behind him in a vice-like grip. The sensation of being physically unable to pull out of her abused cunt, already clenching down on him, sends him head first into an orgasm.

“Fuck,” he groans, “Good girl, daddy’s gonna cum,” he grunts before spilling deep inside her.

He pulls out of her slowly, watching his cum leak out of her abused hole. Her eyes are wide and watery; entirely glassed over, like she’s in a trance.

She whimpers as two of his fingers enter her, fucking his load back into her. “Don’t wanna waste any, do we sweetheart?” He coos at her. He smirks as he curls his fingers, purposely hitting her g-spot. She yelps, hips bucking in a feeble attempt to get away from him. “Oops,” he muses sarcastically, not in the least bit remorseful for his act. Satisfied, he withdraws his fingers from her.

“Shh, breathe, sweetheart,” Sonny says softly, brushing away the hairs sticking to her sweat-dampened forehead. “You did so well for me.”

He walks across the room, and gently lays her down on the couch as he kneels in front of her, pressing kisses to her forehead, cheeks, and finally her lips. “There ya go,” he praises as her breathing begins to even out. “I’ll jus’ be a minute, baby,” he murmurs.

She hums in acknowledgment, fucked dumb enough she can’t speak right. She’s completely and utterly spent, trembling slightly. Her mascara has been cried off, black smudged across her cheeks.

Sonny heads over to his desk, and pours her a glass of water. He walks back over to her. “Can you sit up a bit, sweet girl?” He probes softly. She manages to hoist herself up, leaning back against the leather of the sofa. “Good girl.”

He hands her the glass of water. “Slow sips. Can ya do that f’me?” She nods, doing as she’s told. He smiles softly, and gently wipes away the smudged mascara.

“Thank you,” she rasps out, having screamed her throat hoarse.

It’s a task to get her redressed, due to her still shaky legs, but he manages to get her clothing on, holding her steady. She shudders at the sensation of his cum that he had fingered back inside her starting to drip out once more into her panties.

Despite how rough he was with her, his compassionate nature, as always, comes front and center. Sonny drives her home, hand gently rubbing her thigh the whole way.

Thankfully, she only lives on the second floor of her apartment building, so she manages to get to her door with his assistance. She fumbles for her keys, unlocking the door. She’s about to step inside when she looks up at him, as if making a silent request.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Sonny asks, initially concerned. She reaches out, taking one of his hands, gently tugging him closer.

“Could you help me study some more?” she asks softly. When he realizes she’s looking at him with her big, puppy eyes, he smirks.

Even after being fucked within an inch of her life, she wants more.

“You’re gonna make a persuasive lawyer, baby,” he chuckles and allows himself to be pulled into her apartment, already loosening his tie.

#lala’s fic recs *ೃ༄#˚₊‧꒰ა aug ‘24 fic recs ໒꒱ ‧₊˚#sonny carisi fic recs #smut #nsfw

69 notes · View notes

enretrogue · 1 month ago

Text

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 23 • Swing, Miss, Stay

TAGLIST FORM

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary:

Content Warning: 4th of July ? Fireworks?

A/N: I know some of you hate very long chapters, but I really didn't want to cut this one short. So I hope you enjoy it all the same. I'd like to announce that we're officially entering the second phase: that is, the phase of closeness (FINALLY) between Olivia and Alexis. Don't thank me too soon: this is going to be torture. So get ready!

TUESDAY, JULY 04

Manhattan — Baseball Pitch

06:05 PM

The park had been transformed into a kaleidoscope of red, white, and blue–the kind of festive display that felt more like a performance than a celebration. Folding chairs dotted the grass in uneven rows, coolers stood open with their lids propped by melting ice, and plastic flags fluttered from the tops of chain-link fences and canopy poles like someone had tried to wallpaper the skyline with patriotism. The heavy air was thick with the mingling scents of grilled sausages, sunscreen, cotton candy, and the faint chemical tang of overworked portable toilets.

It was the Fourth of July in Manhattan, and for once, the city had abandoned its usual grit and chaos in favor of something softer, more domestic. Not quite peace, but a truce–families sprawled on picnic blankets, teenagers trailing sparklers too early for dusk, toddlers clutching red helium balloons that bobbed above their heads like sentries. Somewhere near the food trucks, a scratchy speaker system played Bruce Springsteen, the anthem bleeding into the general din of chatter, laughter, barking dogs, and the sharp, satisfying crack of bats hitting baseballs. It wasn't perfect. But it was familiar. Safe. And maybe that was the point.

Miles sat in the bleachers, occupying one of the few shaded spots the modest stand offered, his frame relaxed in the way only exhaustion could force. His legs stretched long in front of him, sneakers scuffed and planted on the lower bench. A pair of mirrored sunglasses shielded his eyes, though they kept drifting toward the parking lot every few minutes, drawn by the pull of a promise that hadn't yet arrived. His t-shirt clung to his back, the sticky humidity clinging like a second skin, and he could feel the heat rising from the metal beneath him, slow and relentless. Between his knees stood Ava, her presence a gentle constant as she dabbed at his cheek with a sponge dipped in face paint. Red first, then white, and soon blue would follow. She moved with mock ceremony, tongue caught between her teeth as she focused on her masterpiece.

Her husband didn't bother protesting anymore. He knew better. The more he complained, the more patriotic she got.

The brunette laughed softly, not looking up from her task.

—You should be so lucky. Charlie's got more star power than you already.

Her fingers paused in midair, the sponge still streaked with face paint, as her gaze wandered out toward the open field. Their daughter was in the thick of it–barefoot, hat slipping sideways over her ears, cheeks bright with sun and sugar, arms flailing with the pure kind of energy only children seemed capable of.

Charlie darted after another kid with a squeal, her laughter clear and bright above the distant hum of the music and the pop of a foul ball bouncing off the gravel. The red of her shirt had darkened with sweat, and the white star painted on her cheek was already smeared from the back of her hand. She was a blur of color and joy and freedom. And for a moment, it softened something in Ava's face, the kind of quiet peace that came from watching your child exist fully in the moment, untouched by all the things that pressed too hard against adult hearts.

Miles let the silence stretch, breathing it in like he could anchor himself with the sound of his girl's laughter. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes flicked toward the edge of the field again, scanning past the pop-up tents and the slow-drifting crowd, looking for a familiar figure. He was waiting for something specific–not just anyone, not just another parent showing up late or a teammate running behind. He was looking for the clipped, deliberate stride that cut through noise like it meant to silence it. The kind of presence that bent a space without ever trying to. But there was nothing. No glimpse of dark hair pulled tight. No flash of that tactical calm wrapped in a civilian smile. No Alexis.

He tried to breathe past the tension crawling beneath his ribs, but it stayed there, stubborn and insistent. She had said she'd come. Promised, in fact. And Gray didn't make promises she didn't intend to keep. Not to him. Not to her niece. And certainly not to a day like this, where her absence would echo louder than it should.

—She said she'd be here, he murmured finally, his voice quiet, like he was afraid saying it too loud would make it untrue.

Ava wiped her hands on a crumpled napkin and turned to face him, resting them gently on his shoulders. Her fingers curled there, warm and steady, grounding. She didn't need to ask who he meant. The worry had been radiating off of him in waves ever since they'd arrived.

—She will. You know she would if she could.

The agent exhaled, not quite convinced.

—Yeah, but it's not like her to miss something like this. Not without saying anything.

—She's a SEAL, babe, his wife reminded gently, though there was no reprimand in her tone. Just understanding. Even on holidays. Maybe especially on holidays. You don't know what's pulling her right now.

—I do, he said, quieter this time, his voice dipping even lower, like the words themselves were fragile. I think it's not the job.

And Ava didn't press, because she knew. They both did. They'd seen it unfold piece by piece since Alexis had come back from D.C., quieter than usual, more contained, like the world had shifted just a degree off center. The fallout from her attempt to talk to Olivia still hung between them, unspoken but deeply felt. The silence from the lieutenant had become something sharp, something their friend tried to pretend didn't hurt–but Miles could see the seams. The commander had unraveled slowly, precisely, like someone trained to hide the damage even while bleeding out.

—I texted Olivia, he admitted, finally. This morning. Just in case. Told her we'd be here. That we'd love to see her and Noah.

The brunette's hand slid down to squeeze his arm, her expression unreadable for a moment, then quietly hopeful.

—Maybe that'll be enough.

For a long while, they didn't speak. They just let the rhythm of the park fold around them, soft and warm, like sunlight diffused through water. The thudding steps of kids tearing across the packed dirt mixed with the squeals of laughter that only summer could draw out. Somewhere near the concession tent, a foam ball cracked off a plastic bat, and the low murmur of Bruce Springsteen filtered through the patchy speakers, faint enough to blend with the hum of conversation and the sizzle of grills. The heat, once oppressive, had begun to loosen its grip, the late afternoon air cooled by the creeping promise of dusk. Ava leaned lightly into Miles where he sat, her hand resting across his chest, the pair of them watching Charlie tumble through a game with children she'd only just met. The girl wore joy like armor, her cheeks pink with the thrill of play, her hat askew and flopping with every exaggerated sprint across the grass.

The man smiled faintly behind his sunglasses, but the expression never reached his shoulders. There was a tension in his frame that no amount of fresh air or sunshine could smooth out. He watched their daughter with one eye, but his focus kept drifting–to the edge of the field, to the path winding in from the parking lot, to the space beside him that still hadn't been filled. Alexis should have been there by now. She'd promised she would be. He kept expecting to see her–striding in with her bat slung over one shoulder and that casual, quiet confidence she wore like second skin. But there was no sign of her. Just more strangers arriving, more folding chairs unfolding, more kids being handed juice boxes and flag stickers.

And eventually, the quiet between him and his wife stretched too long, too tight, and the weight of what he'd been holding onto started to spill over the edges of it.

—She told me, Miles said finally, the words low, almost accidental, as if they'd slipped past the guardrails he usually kept in place. About the other thing. About Olivia.

Ava turned her head slowly, the breeze catching at the loose ends of her hair and brushing them across her cheek as she studied her husband. She didn't speak–not at first. Just watched him the way you watched someone trying not to flinch, her eyes tracing the way his jaw tightened, the restless twitch of his fingers against his thigh before he forced them still. That tone–soft, unfinished–was one she recognized. The sound of someone carrying something too long, too silently.

—She told me Olivia said yes, he continued after a moment, voice even quieter now. To dinner. With that tech. Robbins.

The name landed between them like a dropped stone—sharp, sudden, and sinking. The mother's spine straightened slightly, the motion instinctive. Her brows drew together, confusion flickering into something close to disbelief.

—Wait—what? she said, blinking as she turned to face him more fully. You didn't mention that.

Miles winced and dropped his gaze.

—Yeah. She told me after D.C. She came back and... unraveled a little. Not in some big dramatic way–just quiet. Pulled in. Like she was trying to act like it didn't matter, like it hadn't wrecked her. But I could see it. He ran a hand down his face, stopping just short of his jaw. She's always been good at bleeding quietly. I didn't want to pile on by repeating it.

Ava swatted his arm–not hard, more frustrated than angry. It was the kind of swat that said you're supposed to let me carry that with you, not how dare you keep it to yourself.

—Miles!

—I know, he muttered, leaning forward with a sigh, elbows dropping to his knees, hands folded. I know. I should've told you. But what was I supposed to say? 'Hey, Lex got her heart stomped on by the only woman she's ever actually looked at like that, and now she's pretending it didn't kill her'?

His wife inhaled, the breath catching briefly in her throat before sliding out again in a soft sigh. Her hand found his and curled around it tightly.

—God. Poor Lexi.

—Yeah. His eyes drifted back toward the entrance of the field again. Still empty. Still no sign of the person they were both thinking of. She really thought she could fix it. Thought that showing up, owning it, being honest... maybe that'd be enough. But Olivia— He paused, jaw working slightly. Maybe it was too late. Or maybe she just didn't want to risk it. I don't know.

The brunette was quiet for a moment, thoughtful, then said gently:

—Or maybe she was scared, too. That doesn't mean it's over.

Langford nodded, though it didn't feel like agreement. Not really. It was the kind of nod people gave when they'd stopped believing in simple resolutions.

—Lex hasn't been the same since. She hasn't talked about it. Just buried herself in work like it's the only thing she can control. And she said she'd be here, but—

Before he could finish, a high, unmistakable voice cut through the din of the field like a firecracker in the quiet.

—Auntie Lexi!

Both Miles and Ava turned, heads snapping instinctively toward the voice, and there–moving across the grass with that familiar, focused stride–was Alexis.

She looked different, and yet exactly the same. Athletic clothes instead of her usual black blazer or tactical gear. A high school baseball bat slung over her shoulder, dented and worn with years. Her ponytail bounced with each step, and her aviators reflected the low sun, hiding her expression but not her presence. She wasn't walking fast–but she didn't need to. Just seeing her, finally there, was enough to shift the rhythm of the day. Charlie barreled toward her with joyful abandon, and the commander crouched without hesitation, arms open, catching the girl in a tight, grounding hug as the bat thudded softly against the grass beside them.

The agent exhaled like he'd been holding that breath all day.

—She made it.

08:12 PM

The sky had deepened into a dusky watercolor, a bruised blend of gold and indigo stretching over the Manhattan skyline, streaked by the smoke curling lazily from grills stationed near the park's edge. The last slivers of sunlight glinted off the tops of nearby buildings, casting the baseball pitch in that brief, forgiving glow that makes everything look softer–less worn. From the stands, laughter and clinking soda bottles drifted over the field, the scent of charred hot dogs and melted funnel cake sugar still hanging thick in the air. Stadium lights buzzed above, flickering into full brightness with a reluctant hum, washing the diamond in that harsh, clean white that erased the shadows of early evening.

By now, the crowd had thinned just enough to feel spacious–toddlers wrangled and wiped down, families content to stay until the final inning, bellies full and flags painted haphazardly on cheeks. But down on the field, the spirit of competition burned stubbornly on. The FBI, NYPD, and NYFD teams were locked in their annual friendly rivalry, and as always, the chaos felt half-serious, half-ridiculous–each agency determined to walk away with bragging rights and very little shame.

Near third base, Alexis stood like she'd never left. Her stance was loose but unmistakably confident, the toe of her cleat tapped lightly into the dirt, knees bent, arms relaxed. Her grip on the aluminium bat was casual, but practiced–the way one might hold an old tool that had once saved them from something. The bat itself had aged alongside her, its once-shiny coating now scuffed and pocked from years of use, the white letters mostly worn to ghost-smudges. But she still knew it better than she knew half the agents in their unit. Her ponytail bounced with every shift of her stance, eyes narrowed in anticipation as she scanned the pitcher's mound. She was calm here. Alive in a way she hadn't been in weeks. Out of the office, out of the mess, out of her own head. The rhythm of the game worked like a balm on her nerves. There were rules here, boundaries, predictability. She didn't have to speak. Didn't have to apologize. Just react. Just play. Just breathe.

About thirty feet away, somewhere near the shortstop and the boundary of a slow emotional collapse, stood Miles, who had never looked more out of place in his life. His stance was vaguely athletic, but only because his partner had barked at him from the dugout earlier, threatening to "bench his ass" if he didn't at least pretend to care. His shirt clung to his back in awkward, sweat-soaked patches, and his cap–clearly borrowed, possibly from his daughter–sat at a crooked angle atop his head, defying all sense of adult dignity. He wasn't trying to win. He was trying to survive. Each time a ball neared his section of the field, his shoulders tensed with visible dread, eyes flicking toward the brunette with mute betrayal.

She ignored it, of course. Thoroughly. In fact, she was enjoying this.

Her friend had already tried twice to sub out, both times with pathetic excuses–first claiming a cramp, then claiming sunstroke. Each time, Alexis had waved him off with a grin sharp enough to draw blood and some variation of, "Suck it up, Langford," thrown over her shoulder like a challenge. He muttered curses she couldn't hear and seriously considered faking a sprained ankle. The only reason he hadn't was because he knew it wouldn't work on her. It never had.

From the edge of the field, the bleachers rippled with low conversation and half-hearted cheers, most of the crowd now sunk into the warm lull that comes just before fireworks. Near the top row, Ava had settled in with a juice box for Charlie and a lukewarm soda for herself, her eyes tracking the game more out of habit than interest. Beside her, their daughter sat with her legs swinging over the edge of the bleacher, her cheeks smeared with blue and red face paint, a miniature flag clenched in one sticky hand. She wasn't watching the game anymore–her focus was split between chewing on the corner of her popcorn bag and looking around the stands for familiar faces.

And then she paused, mid-chew, her popcorn bag clutched in one sticky hand, the other frozen halfway to her mouth as if some invisible thread had tugged her entire attention toward the edge of the park. Her wide eyes locked onto something–or someone–and for a heartbeat, she didn't speak. Just stared. Then, in the way only a four-year-old could, she gasped with sudden, uncontainable delight and sprang to her feet, the popcorn spilling over her lap and onto the bleacher without a second thought.

—That's Noah! she cried, her voice slicing clean through the hum of the crowd. Mommy, that's Noah! That's Daddy's friend and her son!

Her mother, caught mid-sip, blinked and turned quickly, her gaze snapping in the direction of her daughter's outstretched finger. She'd been too busy watching Miles on the field–her husband dragging himself toward second base like a man headed for the gallows, his legs slow and theatrical, his face a picture of exaggerated suffering. But now her eyes followed the tiny, excited hand pointing toward the main walkway that curled past the edge of the bleachers. And there, framed by the soft wash of stadium lights and the orange haze of a sun retreating behind city skyscrapers, was Olivia Benson.

She moved slowly, carefully, with that same quiet composure Ava had heard so much about–shoulders straight, stride measured, the kind of calm that didn't come from pretending but from enduring. She wore jeans and a navy blouse, the sleeves pushed just slightly to her elbows, her hair tucked behind one ear with clean precision. And in her hand, Noah bounced–four years old, full of momentum, tugging gently but insistently on her arm, eyes scanning the field with electric curiosity. His little sneakers scuffed the edge of the path as he pulled forward, but his mother held steady, her gaze sweeping the stands like she was looking for someone she wasn't sure she wanted to find.

For a moment, her eyes didn't land anywhere. And then they caught on Ava.

There was a flicker in her expression–not surprise, exactly, but something softer. A hint of recognition. Something cautious and unfinished. Olivia hesitated just long enough to betray the weight of the moment, then gave the smallest nod, as if allowing herself to exist in the space.

The Langford wife rose, brushing stray popcorn from her lap with one hand, the other lifting in greeting. Her smile was warm but grounded, like someone offering a soft place to land without asking for explanations.

—You must be Olivia, she said, voice easy and kind. It's nice to finally meet you. I'm Ava. And this— she gestured down with a small laugh as Charlie practically launched herself forward, —this is Charlotte. But she'll only let you call her Charlie. Strict rule.

The lieutenant smiled in return, the expression tentative but real.

—It's good to meet you, she said, her voice low, a touch uncertain, but not cold. She looked down at the boy at her side, who was already straining on tiptoes to see past the bodies between him and the field. And this is Noah.

The boy barely looked up at the mention of his name. His focus had locked onto the game now, scanning faces and figures until–suddenly–his whole body lit up.

—Is Lexi playing? he asked, his words tumbling out fast and breathless, like the thought had burst right through him. Is she here?

Ava followed his gaze, her grin spreading instinctively.

—She sure is, bud. Third base. See the one yelling at the guy in the grey shirt? That's her.

Noah squinted. And then, just as the girl beside him let out another small shriek of joy, he spotted her–and his entire face erupted into the kind of pure, unfiltered excitement that only a child could express.

Olivia barely had time to brace herself before her son took off. His little legs moved in wild, joyous strides, half-sprint, half-hop as he barreled down the bleacher steps, weaving between legs and folding chairs, popcorn buckets and waving flags, until he reached the low fence that separated the spectators from the players. His small hands gripped the chain links, fingers curling tight as he bounced in place, the tips of his sneakers just barely brushing the grass beneath him.

—Lexi! he shouted, his voice high and unmissable, cutting through the laughter and music and the lazy rhythm of the game like a spark catching dry leaves. LEXI!

Across the field, Alexis had been mid-sentence—half-turning to fire another half-joking complaint toward the pitcher about form and wrist placement—when the sound hit her like a slap of summer rain. The name. That voice. Her body stilled before her brain could catch up, the aluminum bat drooping slightly in her grip as her head snapped toward the stands. And there, just beyond the blur of motion and light, she saw him. Noah. Hands clenched tight on the fence, his little face lit from within like someone had cracked the sky just for him. And beside him–her.

Time didn't stop. It shifted.

The stadium lights flared overhead, the air thick with that sticky July heat, but for a moment the SEAL felt neither the weight of the bat in her hand nor the sweat trickling down her spine. Just Olivia. Standing at the top of the bleachers with her hair loose around her shoulders and a softness in her posture that didn't match the woman in charge Alexis had argued with three weeks ago. She looked... different. Not because she'd changed–but because the brunette had tried so hard not to imagine this moment that now, faced with the real thing, she didn't know how to hold it.

A few yards behind her, Miles saw it too. He stilled mid-jog between bases, eyes narrowing against the bright overhead lights, and when his brain caught up with what his eyes were seeing, a slow grin tugged across his face. He turned toward his wife, catching her already looking toward him from the stands, her eyebrows high, her smile knowing. She tilted her head slightly–told you so–and Miles couldn't stop himself from shaking his head with quiet relief.

Ava bent low beside the kids, brushing hair from Charlie's forehead before nudging Noah gently back a step.

—Careful love, she murmured. Stay behind the line, okay? We'll get her attention.

But they didn't need to.

Alexis was already walking toward them. She didn't rush. She didn't run. But there was a change in her gait, something almost instinctual in the way her body leaned forward, like gravity itself had realigned and she had no choice but to follow. The bat hung forgotten in one hand, her glove tucked into her waistband. Her face gave nothing away, but her eyes didn't stray. Not once. Olivia stood still, hands folded loosely in front of her, waiting–not with challenge, not with distance, but with something quieter. Unnamed. Hopeful, maybe. Cautious, definitely. Gray felt every step like a choice.

And when she reached the fence, it was Noah who broke the tension–who reached up, wide arms and even wider eyes, pleading, joyful, unbothered by the history wrapped around them.

—Lexi, he beamed. You're here.

Her heart cracked open, right there in the middle of the game, on a field covered in trampled grass and empty Gatorade bottles. She crouched to the boy's height, dropping her bat so she could thread her fingers through the fence.

—Course I am, kiddo, she said, her voice rough around the edges but full of something truer than anything she'd managed to say in weeks. Wouldn't miss this for the world.

Behind him, Olivia didn't move, didn't speak. But her eyes stayed fixed on Alexis–and this time, the commander looked back. Not away. Not down. She held the gaze. And maybe, just maybe, that was the first step back.

10:04 PM

By ten, the Fourth of July had mellowed into the kind of soft, shimmering stillness that only came after a day filled with heat, laughter, and unapologetic indulgence. The earlier frenzy had ebbed into a warm, contented haze, the kind that clung to skin and left behind the scent of sunscreen, charcoal, and sugar. Fireworks had begun cracking in the distance–low, echoing bursts of color barely visible over the East River–and the occasional spark flickered above the tree line, casting fleeting reflections in the lingering smoke that curled lazily above the park. The air still pulsed faintly with leftover adrenaline and the sleepy hum of people packing up folding chairs and sticky lemonade cups.

Stadium lights buzzed overhead, harsh and unwavering, washing the now-silent baseball pitch in the pale gleam of too-late summer evenings. The field itself looked worn and ragged–dented cleat marks in the dirt, forgotten gloves and caps scattered like relics from a battlefield where nothing but pride had been lost. NYFD had pulled out a win for the first time in years, and even those who had groaned theatrically about it couldn't help but laugh through the defeat. It was all part of the ritual–compete, curse, concede, then share a beer like it didn't matter at all.

Alexis stalked off the field like someone still reliving every inning in her head, the worn aluminum bat tucked beneath one arm, her glove swinging loosely from the other like she couldn't bear to put either of them down. Her jaw was tight, brows drawn low in quiet frustration, and the set of her shoulders made one thing clear–she wasn't mad about losing. She was mad about how they lost. That pop fly in the seventh inning had been catchable. Absolutely catchable. And the man walking beside her had the gall to pretend otherwise.

—You missed that pop fly on purpose, she muttered without even sparing him a glance, her voice low and sharp, the accusation casual but cutting.

Behind her, Miles trudged along with all the grace of someone who had just survived a physical ordeal he hadn't trained for–or ever wanted to repeat. His shirt clung to his back in all the worst places, sweat-drenched and dust-smeared, and his cap sat crooked on his head, one side of it drooping as though it had finally surrendered to gravity. He looked like a man who had given everything he had for queen, country, and federal bragging rights–and deeply regretted all of it.

—I didn't miss it on purpose, he grumbled, dragging one foot through the grass with the defeated shuffle of someone moments away from declaring himself medically unfit to stand. I missed it because I haven't run in five years without being legally required to, and your pitching coach had me sweating like I was back in Quantico.

The brunette rolled her eyes and snorted, but she didn't argue further. Not yet. Because for all her grumbling and muttered complaints, there was a glow to her that hadn't been there in weeks. She was dusted in dirt and streaked with sweat, but she looked... lighter. Grounded. Like the act of competing–of swinging that old bat, of racing bases like it still mattered–had peeled back a few of the layers she usually kept bound too tightly. Even losing hadn't cracked her mood completely. Because for a few hours, she had been out of her head, out of the tension, and back in something she could control. Something that made sense.

They crossed the outfield slowly, like soldiers leaving a battlefield, both limping in spirit if not in body. The laughter and noise from earlier had softened into an easy hum around them–families folding up blankets, kids still sticky from popsicles chasing the last sparks of energy through the grass, the occasional shout from someone packing up a cooler too loudly. Alexis squinted into the bleachers ahead, blinking past the bright stadium lights and the silhouettes moving beneath them, and that was when she heard it–high-pitched, familiar, and unmistakably hers.

—Auntie Lexi!

The sound hit her like a fastball to the chest, and she barely had time to react before Noah barreled through the open grass and launched himself at her legs, arms outstretched and voice bubbling over with joy. A half-beat behind him came Charlie, determined and shrieking with laughter, her tiny fists pumping as she raced to catch up. The SEAL caught the boy mid-run with ease, lifting him in one smooth motion, the aluminum bat dropping to the ground with a soft thud. He giggled in her arms, wrapping his legs around her waist, his head tucking beneath her chin like it belonged there. Her heart twisted at the familiarity of it–at how instinctive it felt, how natural.

But then her niece skidded to a halt at her feet, face scrunched and arms flung dramatically into the air.

—Me too! Me too! It's not fair!

Alexis let out a laugh–short, startled, and full of real warmth. Without hesitation, she bent slightly and lifted the Langford daughter as well, bracing the girl against her opposite hip like it was nothing, though the weight of both children pressed into her ribs and shoulders with the kind of pressure she hadn't realized she missed. Their tiny bodies wiggled with excitement, babbling over each other, peppering her with questions and half-stories she couldn't fully catch. But none of it mattered. Because in that moment, her world was narrowed to the beat of their laughter against her collarbone and the feeling–rare and fleeting–of being absolutely, undeniably wanted.

Miles caught up with her finally, breathless and smirking, wiping sweat from his brow.

—Look at you. Walking MVP and designated jungle gym. You ever consider quitting the Bureau and becoming a playground queen?

She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her.

—Tempting.

Together, they reached the fence, where the glow from the stands fell softer, and the figures waiting just beyond the railing began to take shape. Ava stood with her arms crossed, watching them with that knowing tilt of her head that always made Miles nervous. She reached out to tuck a loose curl behind her ear, and then pointedly raised a brow as if to say, You owe me. But her grin told a different story. She was proud. Relieved. Grateful, even, to see the woman they both loved–platonically, fiercely, endlessly—carrying the two kids like her spine had been built for it.

And just behind her, slightly apart but unmistakable in presence, stood Olivia.

She hadn't moved much from where she'd arrived, but she watched now with quiet intensity, her gaze locked not on the children, but on the woman holding them. She looked almost out of place there, amid the remnants of a day that had never really been hers. But she had come anyway. She had stayed. And as Alexis crossed into the halo of light near the fence, the lieutenant's eyes didn't waver.

Neither did the commander's.

For a second, something flickered in the air between them–recognition, hesitation, maybe even forgiveness–but it passed quickly, smoothed over by the interruption of real life.

—Alright, Ava announced brightly, stepping forward and reaching for Charlie first, though the girl whined in protest. Time for food before someone melts down. And by someone, I mean your father.

—Hey, Miles protested half-heartedly, but his wife was already tugging on his sleeve, her other hand ruffling Noah's curls as he reluctantly let go of Alexis.

—We'll meet you by the food trucks, she added, not looking back as she led their crew away, leaving both women standing a few feet apart in the soft hush of the post game lull.

For the first time in weeks, it was just the two of them. No badge. No cases. No excuses. Only the quiet, and the mess they'd both left in it.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The distant crackle of fireworks stitched the silence between them, bursts of color barely visible over the trees beyond the field. The breeze had cooled slightly, lifting the edges of Olivia's navy blouse and sending loose strands of Alexis' hair drifting across her cheek where her ponytail had begun to fray. The field behind them was nearly empty now, scattered with a few lingering figures packing up gear, the echo of laughter and clinking bottles fading into something gentler. The brunette shifted her weight, fingers flexing absently around the grip of her glove. She hadn't expected this. Her friend showing up. Standing there. Staying.

With a quiet breath, Gray moved first. She crossed the few steps between them with the kind of cautious steadiness that didn't match the way her heart stammered behind her ribs. Then she sat–carefully, almost shyly–on the low bench beside Olivia, keeping just enough space between them that the air still held tension, but not so much that it felt like a wall. Her posture was smaller than usual, more contained. Like she was still bracing for the kind of impact that couldn't be blocked with body armor.

The lieutenant didn't look at her at first. Her eyes were still on the kids in the distance, now running full tilt toward the smell of food and the promise of ice cream. But then she bumped her shoulder gently against Alexis' –light, teasing, like a gesture from someone who remembered how to be familiar.

—You didn't warn me you were that good. Third base like it's your natural habitat. I would've brought popcorn.

The SEAL let out a soft exhale that might've been a laugh, or might've just been relief. She stared at the worn field in front of them, where her cleat marks were still etched into the dirt, and shook her head slightly.

—I was obsessed with it in high school. Guess muscle memory really is a thing.

Silence again, but this time it felt easier. Not comfortable exactly–but less brittle.

—I'm sorry, she said then, quietly, her eyes still fixed on the diamond. For how I handled things. For pushing you away. For shutting you and SVU out.

Olivia finally turned to look at her. The lieutenant's expression was soft, not unreadable like it often was–but open. Tired, maybe. But not hard.

—You don't have to, she said quietly, cutting through the apology before it could gain too much momentum. I know why you did it.

Alexis blinked, her jaw tightening instinctively, but the oldest woman's voice was steady, her gaze unwavering.

—I know about the threat. About Grant. About what he said he'd do to me. And to Noah. Miles told me. A few days ago.

The SEAL's breath caught in her throat, then released all at once like a valve breaking open. Her shoulders dipped slightly, tension bleeding out from a place too deep to be touched by words.

—I just— she started, then stopped, shaking her head. It wasn't supposed to happen like that. I thought if I moved fast enough, quiet enough, I could keep him away from you. From your son. I didn't know how else to... protect you.

Olivia leaned back slightly, resting her arms across the top of the bench. She looked up at the sky–now inky with night, painted with the flashes of distant fireworks–and spoke without looking at her.

—I would've done the same, she said simply. Hell, I have. Probably more times than I can count.

There was no accusation in her voice. No edge. Just truth. And something else, too–something that felt like understanding.

—I hated not hearing from you, she admitted, finally turning back. I hated seeing you walk away. But I get it now. I do.

Alexis nodded slowly, then finally looked at her–really looked at her. There was still pain there, in both their eyes. Still hurt from words unspoken and moments mishandled. But there was something else, too. Something that had survived the silence.

—I wanted to fix it. I just... didn't know how.

—Maybe you just did.

Just a short walk from the edge of the field, beneath the drooping strands of red, white, and blue lights that swayed gently between tree branches, the food trucks had transformed the park's border into a buzzing little village of smoke, flavor, and holiday heat. The scent of grilled sausages and sizzling meat mingled with buttered corn, sweet fried dough, and the unmistakable tang of barbecue sauce that clung to the air like a second skin. People clustered around ordering windows with napkins already in hand, the murmur of conversation woven with bursts of laughter and the occasional impatient whine from over-tired children. It was festive in a soft, end-of-day way–like the city had finally exhaled.

Ava weaved her way through the loose crowd with ease, balancing two overloaded trays of chili dogs in one arm while her other hand stayed firmly wrapped around Charlie's, who bounced at her side with the endless energy of a four-year-old hopped up on sugar and attention. Every few seconds the little girl tried to dart ahead, tugging at her mother's hand and pointing at different booths with declarations like "I smell donuts!" and "That popcorn is talking to me!" The brunette only smiled, half-exasperated, half-enchanted, keeping her steady with a maternal ease that came from four years of practice and zero illusions.

Behind them, Miles brought up the rear, the slightly more disheveled half of the parenting duo, with Noah perched on his shoulders, legs wrapped around his chest like a clinging backpack. The boy was giggling, gripping the collar of the agent's T-shirt with sticky fingers, his curls bouncing as he leaned left and right, trying to spot his new friend over the top of her dad's head. The adult grunted, adjusting his grip on the bag of chips in his hand and muttering something about needing a chiropractor, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth gave him away. He didn't mind. Not really.

They finally found a patch of grass near one of the low communal tables, a little pocket of calm just far enough from the trucks to hear each other over the hum. The glow from the hanging lights pooled around them in soft, flickering halos. Ava knelt first, setting the trays down carefully, and began unwrapping one of the chili dogs for Charlie, who immediately tried to shove half of it toward Noah like she was hosting a feast. Never mind that he had one of his own. The two kids plopped into the grass, knees knocking together, their laughter rising in staccato bursts as they shared fries and invented games with ketchup packets and plastic forks like little entrepreneurs bartering in a world only they understood.

From their little haven on the grass, the world seemed to slow. The mother leaned back on one arm, brushing a strand of hair from her face with the other, watching the kids with that quiet smile she wore when she let herself sink into a moment without thinking too hard. Their daughter had found a rhythm with the little boy almost instantly–like they spoke a language only the very young and very open-hearted understood. Their giggles were half-words, half-invented nonsense, and the small plastic ketchup packet war they were now waging appeared to be the most important battle either of them had ever fought.

Miles, sitting beside her now with his legs stretched out and his elbows planted behind him for balance, wasn't watching the children–not really. His sunglasses were tucked into the collar of his shirt, and his face was flushed from sun, exertion, and the kind of exhaustion that didn't just sit in the muscles but nestled in the bones. But his eyes were elsewhere. Across the field. Past the glint of stadium lights and into the dimmer edge of the park where Alexis and Olivia stood, still talking.

They were too far away to make out details, but he didn't need details. He could read his partner's posture from a hundred yards. Shoulders squared but not defensive. Head tilted down, then up, not quite meeting the other woman's gaze at first. It was a softness he hadn't seen in her since D.C., since that morning she'd come back quiet and scraped raw, pretending she was fine when she couldn't even fake the lie properly. And Olivia–God, he'd only met her a handful of times outside of work, but her silhouette was unmistakable. Steady. Composed. Always just a little pulled in on herself, like she knew the world wanted more of her than she had left to give. But now, she wasn't walking away. She wasn't stonewalling or dodging. She was staying. Listening.

His wife followed his gaze, nudging his knee gently.

—They look like they're actually talking.

—Yeah. They do.

He didn't say what he was really thinking. That maybe–just maybe–Alexis would finally say what she'd been holding onto all this time. That beneath all the uniforms and secrets, beneath the guilt and bravado, she might actually let herself want something that wasn't survival or duty. He wasn't naïve. He knew his partner too well. She didn't do vulnerability easily. But he'd also never seen her look at anyone the way she looked at Olivia Benson. Like the woman was a safe place in a world full of orders and loss. Like the storm could stop, just for a minute, if she stayed close enough.

He let out a breath and shook his head faintly, half to himself.

—If she doesn't say something now, I swear I'm going to lock them in a car until she does.

Ava chuckled, leaning her head briefly against his shoulder.

—That's kidnapping, Langford.

—Not if it's for love, he deadpanned.

From across the grass, a burst of laughter floated back toward them—the unmistakable kind that only came from letting go of something that had been knotted too tightly for too long. Miles looked up in time to see Olivia bump Alexis' shoulder with her own, and Alexis–Alexis Gray, the Navy SEAL, the sharp-edged, iron-willed, never-let-anyone-in version of her–smiled like she meant it.

He smiled, too. Maybe this time, she'd get it right. Maybe this time, she'd let herself have something good.

12:14 AM

The night had deepened into a velvet hush, the air cooling just enough to carry the scent of damp grass and burned-out fireworks left in the wake of the celebration. The park was mostly quiet now, the food trucks long shuttered, folding chairs collapsed, children carried home in the arms of sleepy parents. Even the string lights hanging from the trees had dimmed, their festive glow reduced to soft pulses in the shadows. The field, once filled with the chaos of laughter and play, was now just a stretch of darkness lit faintly by the distant streetlamps that lined the path to the parking lot.

Alexis walked slowly beneath them, her pace deliberately careful, one arm looped around the small, sleeping weight tucked against her shoulder. Noah's head rested against her collarbone, his breaths deep and even, his limbs completely surrendered to sleep in the way only young children could manage. He hadn't lasted long after the meal. Somewhere between the last bite of funnel cake and the third invented game with Charlie, he'd crawled into the commander's lap and passed out, cheek smushed against her ribs, one small fist still curled around her shirt like it anchored him there. And when his mom had suggested they head home, the brunette hadn't hesitated to lift him into her arms, holding him with an ease that surprised even her.

Beside her, Olivia kept quiet, matching her step. She carried Alexis' backpack slung over one shoulder and held the battered aluminum bat in the other hand, her fingers curled around the worn grip like it belonged to her, like it had always belonged. They made their way across the gravel lot slowly, shoes crunching against loose stones, the kind of quiet that felt deliberate–not tense, but full. There was something tentative in the space between them, like the edges had softened, but the center still hadn't settled. Neither of them had quite said what they needed to say.

As they neared the car, the weight of the evening seemed to settle around them like a soft blanket–thick with warmth, exhaustion, and the kind of silence that didn't need to be filled. The youngest adjusted Noah slightly in her arms, the boy's limbs heavy with sleep, his small mouth open as his cheek pressed against her collarbone. She glanced sideways, her eyes drifting from Olivia's profile to the bat in her hand, then down to the child she held with quiet ease. Her voice came almost hesitantly, casual on the surface but wrapped in restraint so thick the oldest could feel it before the words even finished forming.

—You, uh... ever end up going to dinner with Robbins?

The question landed lightly, but Benson felt its weight like a hand pressing against her ribs. It wasn't jealousy, not exactly–it was gentler than that, more cautious, like the young SEAL was walking barefoot across something fragile. She hadn't looked directly at her when she said it. The same woman who had once walked through a firefight without blinking was now trying not to reveal just how much the answer mattered. Olivia didn't respond immediately. Her eyes stayed fixed ahead, toward the car parked under the lamplight, toward the rhythmic rise and fall of her son's back against her friend's shoulder. Her grip on the baseball bat tightened almost imperceptibly before she finally exhaled.

—No, she said simply, quietly. I didn't go.

Alexis kept walking, her stride unchanged, but the SVU detective noticed the subtle shift–the breath released, the tension unwinding from her shoulders like a rope loosening around something delicate. Her brow lifted faintly, enough to suggest a question, but she didn't press. Olivia continued, softer now, more to the air between them than to herself.

—I meant to. Picked out a dress. Even answered his message. But when it came down to it... She gave a small shake of her head, almost at herself, her expression half-amused, half-resigned. It didn't feel right.

Still not looking at her, the commander nodded. Her gaze was fixed ahead, but her jaw tensed slightly, her mouth tightening in a way the oldest brunette almost missed.

—He canceled? she asked, and though the question was neutral, Olivia heard the faint thread of something underneath–something quietly protective or hopeful.

—No. He followed up. Tried rescheduling. A couple times. She shrugged, letting the words fall naturally. There was no venom in them, no pretense–just truth. Just the honest outline of something that had never started because it wasn't supposed to.

By then they had reached the car. Olivia unlocked it with a faint beep and opened the back door while Alexis leaned forward, expertly settling Noah into the booster seat as if she'd done it a hundred times before. Her hands were sure, gentle, brushing curls off the boy's forehead as he stirred and let out a tiny breath but didn't wake. The lieutenant stood beside her, silent, watching the way the agent lingered just a second too long. The moment was quiet but full–of care, of memory, of the weight of what could've been lost and hadn't been.

When Alexis stepped back and let the door close with a muted click, the air between them seemed to shift. Olivia still held the bat, fingers curled around it almost absently, as if letting it go might somehow unravel whatever fragile thread had formed between them again. Gray had tucked her hands into her back pockets, her stance relaxed but not fully open. There was still caution in the lines of her body–caution, but also hope.

—I didn't think you'd come tonight, she said at last, her voice low, not quite sad but not entirely sure. Figured you had better things to do.

—I wasn't sure I would, Olivia admitted. But Noah wanted to see you. She paused, then added, more softly. And I did too.

That stopped the commander for a beat. Her face didn't change much, but Benson saw the flicker of emotion pass through her eyes–a hint of surprise, of something tender trying not to rise too quickly. She looked down at the pavement, then back up again, the corners of her mouth pulling into something not quite a smile.

—I'm glad. You didn't have to come. But I'm glad you did.

Their eyes met then, and for a long, unguarded moment, neither of them looked away. All the tension of the past weeks–the argument, the distance, the silence–seemed to hang suspended, acknowledged but no longer pressing like a bruise. It was still there, but it didn't ache the same way. There was something gentler in its place now. Something with a future.

—I think this belongs to you, Olivia said, extending the bat and the backpack between them.

Alexis took it, her fingers brushing against her friend's in the handover. The contact was brief, but it lingered–charged in that quiet, unspoken way that happened when neither party dared name what was growing between them. The lieutenant didn't pull away immediately. The youngest didn't move either.

—I should go, the mother said eventually, her voice barely above a murmur, tinged with the kind of reluctance that didn't need to be explained.

The moment had stretched long between them, and though the silence wasn't uncomfortable, it clung to them with a kind of intimacy that made parting feel heavier than it should. She reached for the driver's side door and opened it with the soft click of the handle, casting one more glance at Alexis as the other woman nodded.

—Drive safe, Gray offered, the words simple but carrying weight, like a thread tying the moment closed.

—I always do, Olivia replied gently, and with that, she slid into the seat and shut the door behind her with a quiet finality.

The engine purred to life beneath her hands, humming low and steady as the headlights spilled out over the gravel of the lot, casting soft shadows in the direction they'd just come from. Her fingers hovered near the steering wheel, then the radio dial, but she didn't move to shift gears just yet. Something in her stilled.

And then–through the night's stillness, just as she reached for the gearshift–her name broke the quiet again, tentative but clear.

–Uh... Liv?

The lieutenant turned her head. The window was still cracked open, and the voice threaded through it like something delicate. She found the agent standing a few feet closer now, a step shy of the driver's side door, one hand shoved into her pocket while the other brushed nervously through her hair. Her posture was uncertain in a way Olivia rarely saw–less composed soldier, more unsure woman standing at the edge of something she wasn't quite ready to name.

Alexis's gaze darted to meet Olivia's, and held.

—Dinner sometime? she asked, the question light, but sincere. My treat.

The words weren't flirtatious. They weren't a test. They were soft, straightforward, and quietly brave, spoken with the cautious kind of hope that came from someone still unsure if she'd earned the right to ask–but doing it anyway.

For a heartbeat, Olivia didn't answer. She blinked, absorbing the shift, the meaning tucked into that simple offer. Her heart, which had only just begun to ease into a calmer rhythm after the emotional minefield of the night, skipped forward again–caught off guard, but not unwilling. She looked at the brunette, really looked, taking in the slight tension in her frame, the way her mouth twitched upward like she wasn't sure if a smile was allowed, but hoping for one anyway.

There was no humor in the woman's response. No teasing, no clever remark to deflect what was so clearly an attempt to reach out. Instead, her lips parted into a quiet, slow smile–genuine, grateful.

—Yeah. Dinner sounds good.

And just like that, the night didn't feel quite so finished.

BONUS SCENE

Olivia hadn't gone far. Her car rolled slowly toward the edge of the parking lot, headlights casting narrow beams that brushed against folding chairs and forgotten coolers, the night pressing in around the soft hum of the engine. She was half-waiting for traffic to clear, half-delaying the inevitable return to the solitude of her apartment. The distant glow of the field lights still spilled faintly across her mirrors, staining the edges of the night in gold and artificial white. She kept her hands on the wheel, but something tugged at her–a flicker of movement in the rearview, or maybe just instinct.

She glanced back.

And there, perfectly framed in the mirror's glass, stood Alexis. Alone now at the edge of the field, framed by the low chain-link fence and the shadows of empty bleachers. She was still holding the bat she'd carried all night, but her stance had changed–loosened, transformed. There was no trace of the guarded woman who had walked beside Olivia minutes earlier, all quiet restraint and unspoken words. Instead, the brunette looked entirely herself, or maybe more than that–like someone shaking free from something heavy. Her shoulders squared, then lifted in a breath that looked suspiciously like triumph. And then she did something Olivia hadn't expected.

She grinned. Not a small, polite smile. A real one–big and unabashed, the kind of grin that made her eyes squint and her chin lift, as if the very act of joy couldn't be helped. She raised the bat like a trophy, pumping it in the air once, twice, before swinging it through the night air in a wide, playful arc. And then, in a voice just loud enough to cut through the distance, she shouted with infectious, reckless glee:

—Fuck you, Greg!

The words cracked across the lot like a firework, utterly unexpected, and the lieutenant blinked–startled for only a second before a laugh slipped out of her, quiet and involuntary. Her hand came to her mouth, not to hide the sound but to catch the smile that was already blooming across her lips, wide and warm and entirely genuine. She didn't need context. Didn't need to know exactly who Greg was. Whoever he'd been–whoever he still was–he'd clearly earned that swing, and maybe more.

But what held Olivia there, what kept her from turning back to the road, wasn't just the moment's humor. It was the truth of it. The rare, unguarded glimpse of Alexis unfiltered. Not the FBI agent. Not the Navy SEAL. Not the woman weighed down by duty, guilt, or grief. Just Lex. Exhaling something old. Reclaiming something young. Glowing under the stadium lights like a girl who had just knocked it out of the park–metaphorically or otherwise.

And she didn't know she was being watched.

That made it better somehow. Purer. More honest.

Benson bit her bottom lip, watching the reflection, the grin still lingering on her mouth even as it softened. The laugh in her chest stilled into something deeper–something she didn't name, but felt entirely. She wasn't sure what it meant, this fluttering calm that had rooted in her ribs like a new rhythm. But for the first time in what felt like weeks–maybe longer–her heart didn't ache. It didn't race.

It just... settled.

TAGLIST: @certainlysleepy @ginasbaby @nciscmjunkie @thefatobsession @makkaroni221 @hi-i-1 @kiwiana145 @kobayashi-fr @alexis042499

#lala’s fic recs *ೃ༄#𓏲 ₊˚๑( jul ‘25 fic recs )໑‧₊˚.ꪆ #olivia benson fic recs

20 notes · View notes

enretrogue · 1 month ago

Text

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 22 • Not Home, But Close

TAGLIST FORM

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary:

Content Warning: Usual SVU & Violent Crime talk • Human Trafficking - Corpses - Teen Victims - Blood - CRIME SCENE - Description of the Crime Scene - CSU techs - Religious Case - Threats -

*THREE DAYS EARLIER*

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 07

Manhattan — Crime Scene

05:38 AM

—If I fake an injury now, think I can get out of that Fourth of July game without losing Bureau cred?

Miles's voice cut through the early morning stillness with that brand of familiar sarcasm that only came when he was already picturing the nightmare of being forced into a team jersey and swinging wildly at curveballs in front of half of Manhattan's law enforcement. He stepped lightly over a scatter of broken glass that caught the first whisper of dawn and glimmered like shattered ice against the damp asphalt. His coat was drawn tight against the chill that hadn't yet given way to the city's summer burn, but even that slight cold couldn't hide the scent of death hanging heavy in the alley.

The scene stretched long and narrow before them, the kind of backlot space people forgot existed until something awful reminded them. Graffiti curled along the brick walls in faded bursts of color that looked more like bruises in the low light. The buildings hunched close together, dark windows like hollowed eyes staring down at the mess below. Trash bins lined the left side in rusted, uneven formation, their lids half-closed against the reek of rotting food and something metallic underneath–something older. It wasn't just the stink of garbage. It was the chemical thrum of decomposition. Blood, damp paper, copper. The alley was a burial ground dressed up in city grime. And it had been waiting.

Alexis didn't answer him right away. She was crouched low beside the far wall, one knee bent, gloved fingers hovering over a smear of dried blood that twisted along the concrete like a dragged brushstroke. It was dark, nearly black in places, and where it hadn't pooled, it fanned outward in thin spatter–a story in arterial bursts. Her gaze tracked the line all the way to a bloated trash bag crumpled against a cinderblock, half-split open, revealing the unmistakable shape of a foot. Small. Pale. Motionless.

The first uniform on scene had marked it hastily–an evidence tent already damp and sagging, its number scrawled half-legibly in Sharpie. Just a formality now. Nothing could sanitize what they were standing in. The commander leaned closer. A torn swatch of pink fabric protruded from beneath the bag, twisted around what might have once been an arm. Something about it–a child's shirt, the kind worn in summer programs or after-school drop-ins–caught the morning light and made her throat tighten.

She didn't look up, even when her partner's footsteps scuffed softly behind her, even when the breeze brought the smell of old rain and copper sliding between them. Her eyes were locked on the ground like it was whispering to her. That particular silence–the one that came when she wasn't just seeing a scene, but unraveling it from the inside out. Like she was already walking backward through the last seconds of someone's life.

—Miles, she said finally, low and dry, her voice sounding far away. You do know you can just admit you hate baseball right?

He let out a tired breath, halfway between a chuckle and a groan, stepping past a pile of cracked takeout containers and sodden cardboard.

—I did. And Reynolds called it treason.

He came to stand beside her, shoulders slouched and hands deep in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the length of the alley like he could somehow spot the thing that would make all of this make sense.

—Between the NYPD, FDNY, and us, it's not even about the game anymore. It's a city-wide testosterone derby. Whoever hits the most home runs gets bragging rights, an ego the size of Central Park, and probably the least-burnt office coffee machine in their division.

Alexis didn't laugh, but the corner of her mouth twitched. She rose slowly, peeling off her gloves with a kind of practiced detachment—finger by finger, methodical—before brushing them clean against the thigh of her pants. Her eyes flicked toward the far end of the alley where another body was being photographed, partially obscured by a collapsed shopping cart and a spray of discarded flyers. The victim was no older than the first. Teenage. Female. Bare legs covered in grime. No shoes.

—Would explain why the scheduling board looks like it was drawn up by a frat house, she muttered. Also, you played soccer. In Ohio. No one's asking you to relive your glory days. Just show up, take a swing, and try not to tear a hamstring.

The man placed a hand over his heart in mock offense.

—Division II, he reminded her solemnly. We had matching warmups. Team breakfasts. A mascot. The works. You ever get tackled by a guy in a cardinal suit with dead eyes? Scars you for life.

She snorted once, softly. But her eyes never left the second victim. The moment was shifting again. That fragile thread of levity unraveling under the pressure of what surrounded them. The alley had grown colder, somehow, and quieter. Like even the city itself was holding its breath.

Miles lowered his hand with a sigh that was more bone-deep than breath. The air felt different now. He could see it in the way his friend's shoulders squared, the way her stance shifted from casual to keyed-in without fanfare. She was always like this–able to laugh for exactly the amount of time it took to keep the pressure from crushing them, and no longer.

He shifted his stance, folding his arms across his chest as his weight sank into one hip, boots scuffing lightly against the grimy concrete beneath him. The sound was faint, almost swallowed by the silence that had crept over the alley like a second skin. He didn't need to ask what she saw. The way Alexis stood, body taut and eyes narrowed against the shadows, told him enough.

The second girl lay just beyond the edge of the portable floodlights, where the glow gave out and the dark took over. Even half-covered, her small form spoke volumes. Limbs bent at unnatural angles, shoes missing, skin marked in ways that shouldn't happen to anyone, let alone a child. There were welts where restraints had dug in, and long, cruel scrapes down one thigh like she'd fought something that never gave her a chance. The CSU techs moved quietly around the body, their voices low and their hands steady, but even that calm couldn't hide the tightness around their eyes. One of them–maybe new, maybe just not used to this particular brand of hell–kept pausing, as if bracing for the moment the image would burn too deep to forget.

The alley stank of rot and old metal, of rainwater that hadn't been enough to wash away what happened here. Miles had seen worse. They both had. But something about this case–about the girls, about the silence and the lies wrapped in sermons and smiles–stuck sharper than usual. It scraped behind his ribs. The longer he stood there, the harder it was to pretend this was just another scene, just another day.

Alexis didn't speak for a long time. Her posture was still, but not at rest–like she was coiled around something invisible, holding it down. When she finally did speak, her voice was quieter than usual, the words low and deliberate, like they cost her something to say.

—I invited Olivia. To the game.

Langford blinked, surprised by the shift. He turned toward her slowly, his brow arching as the words sank in.

—You did?

She gave a small nod, her eyes never leaving the line of techs now lifting the edge of the second tarp.

—Figured Noah might like it. Ava and Charlie'll be there. Thought it might be... good. Something fun. Something normal.

The pause that followed wasn't long, not even a full breath, but it was full of weight. Miles heard what she didn't say. He heard it in the slight softening of her tone, in the way she avoided his eyes, in the way her hand flexed once at her side and then stilled. He didn't press–at least not right away. Just gave her the space to walk herself back, to deny it. But she didn't. She stood there, back straight, staring at the worst of it like it was easier than admitting anything else.

He finally stepped a little closer, dropping his voice to keep it just between them.

—Let me guess–box seats, hot dogs, red-white-and-blue face paint. You standing there pretending to care about the score. Her next to you the whole time.

That pulled her eyes toward him. Just briefly. And her expression, though unreadable to most, didn't fool him. Not all the way.

He smiled, just a little.

—Are you gonna tell her?

The brunette blinked. Her head tilted slightly, playing innocent, like she didn't understand the question.

—Tell her what?

—Oh, come on, Miles said, dragging out the words with practiced patience. You're inviting the lieutenant of Manhattan SVU to sit with your best friend, his wife, and their daughter at a game you didn't even want to go to. That's not a casual invitation. That's family outing territory. You gonna finally tell her how you feel? Or are you sticking to the strong, silent, emotionally constipated federal agent routine?

For a second, something flickered across her face. It wasn't quite a smile, but it wasn't anger either. It was that look she wore when she wanted to say something but knew she couldn't–because the truth would unravel too much too fast. Then, just like that, her expression shuttered. Her gaze dropped back to the bodies, and whatever warmth had tried to break through disappeared beneath her command again.

—There's a connection, she said flatly, her voice sliding back into the businesslike cadence that meant the walls were back up. Same drug pattern. Same restraint marks. Same arrogance. Whoever left them didn't care if we found them. That's not panic–that's confidence. Like they don't think we'll make it to the top.

Her friend let out a slow breath through his nose.

—You're not gonna talk about it.

—There's nothing to talk about.

—Right, he said, not buying it for a second.

She stepped toward the CSU perimeter then, the motion fluid but tense, like her body needed to stay ahead of her thoughts. Then she paused again, just before she crossed into the cordoned zone.

—That girl Benson pulled out of the church. Maria. She wasn't the start of it. But she cracked something. Even if she didn't say a word, she changed the game.

Miles didn't argue. He knew the truth when he heard it—even when it came dressed in avoidance. Alexis Gray didn't dodge out of fear. She did it to protect people. She'd always done it that way, from deployment to desk work. But the more she avoided, the more it ate at her. He saw it in the way her jaw clenched. In the way her hand twitched again at her side like it wanted to reach for something solid–someone she wasn't ready to admit she needed.

—Alright. We'll circle back to the whole feelings thing later. Preferably when we're not standing next to dead teenagers and a CSU tech trying not to puke in his mask.

The attempt at levity landed somewhere in the space between them, a soft buffer against the grim gravity of the alley. Alexis didn't laugh. But she didn't snap back either. Her answer came low, almost too soft to catch.

—Appreciate that.

And she meant it. Not just the words, but the weight behind them. The way he gave her space without abandoning the truth. The way he always knew when to back off without leaving her alone in it. Still, the agent didn't miss the shift–the way her eyes lingered on the tarp a second longer than necessary, the tiny twitch in her jaw when someone behind them muttered Olivia's name while cross-referencing notes. The SEAL didn't move, didn't flinch. But her body did that thing it always did when she was trying not to feel something too hard–her spine went straighter, her breath just a little shallower. Like she was bracing herself against an impact that hadn't hit yet.

Miles turned back toward the crime scene slowly, exhaling through his nose. The heat of dawn was beginning to rise between the buildings, thickening the air with the slow rot of garbage and rain-soaked brick. But all he could feel was the weight pressing behind his ribs–the weight of knowing too much and still not enough. He didn't need her to say it out loud. Not yet. But she was bleeding, in silence, for more than just the case. For someone. Someone with dark eyes and a badge and a son who still believed the world could be safe.

He didn't say another word. But in the back of his mind, he was already planning. If Alexis wouldn't tell her, maybe the game would. Maybe seeing Olivia in the stands, arms wrapped around Noah, laughing with Ava and Charlie–maybe that would tip the scale. One way or another, something needed to give. Because you could only carry that kind of love in secret for so long before it cracked you open from the inside.

Then, from somewhere behind the row of CSU vans, a voice cut through the static of early morning.

—Commander Gray?

It was loud, but not panicked—sharp, clear, enough to pull her attention without setting off alarms. She turned, boots shifting against the wet concrete, and locked eyes with a young forensic tech jogging toward her, one gloved hand raised. He looked uncertain, uneasy, his other hand gripping a clear plastic evidence bag, the kind sealed tight at both ends. Inside it, a black phone vibrated in steady pulses against the plastic.

—It's ringing, the tech said, slowing to a halt. We found it tucked into the second girl's inner jacket lining. Hidden. But... it hasn't stopped.

Alexis reached for the bag without hesitation, eyes already narrowing. Her fingers curled around the edge of the plastic, holding it steady as the screen lit up again. Unknown number. No caller ID. But the timing–right now, right here–wasn't coincidence. It was calculated.

She didn't speak. Just accepted the call with one gloved fingertip through the plastic.

—Mmhmm, her partner muttered behind her, already on alert. That's not creepy at all.

But Gray wasn't listening. Her expression had changed, just slightly–eyes sharpened, the muscles at the base of her jaw flexing. Her voice, when it came, was low and lethal.

—Gray.

There was a pause. Not long. Just enough for her to hear her own breath inside the silence, the faint static buzz of a connection bridged across distance–and power. The voice, when it finally came, wasn't what she expected. No bravado. No theatrics. Just smooth, steady composure laced with something colder beneath.

—Commander Gray, the man said, as if greeting an old friend. It's a privilege. Really.

Her spine straightened, and a muscle ticked at the edge of her temple. Miles shifted behind her, catching the change in her posture, his own instincts flaring. He took a step closer but didn't interrupt.

The agent didn't speak. She'd learned in the teams–sometimes, silence was power. Let the enemy fill it.

The stranger chuckled softly, like he was amused by her restraint.

—I was hoping you'd pick up. I didn't think you would–not yet. But then again, you always were the type to get too close to the blast radius.

Her jaw clenched tighter.

—Who is this? she asked, though she already knew.

—You know, he said simply, like it was obvious. You've seen the pieces. The girls. The patterns. The rot. You're not the only one watching, Commander. You're just the one who came too close.

She said nothing. But her grip on the plastic tightened.

—I've been keeping an eye on a few things. On you. On your partner. And more recently–on Lieutenant Benson.

That name dropped like a stone.

Behind her, Miles straightened, but Alexis raised one hand–barely, subtly–to keep him back. Her pulse had started to thrum beneath her collar. Not panic. Not fear. Something sharper. More dangerous.

—You're playing a dangerous game, she said, her voice like steel smoothed to a whisper. Dragging kids into it. Drugging them. Dumping bodies in alleys.

—You think I'm afraid of being caught? You think this is about evidence? About charges and courtrooms and press releases? No, Commander. This isn't a case. This is a warning.

She said nothing. Let him hang himself.

—I saw her. Your lieutenant. Olivia. At the church. She didn't flinch. Not when Maria collapsed. Not when she lifted that girl out like she weighed nothing at all. Strong woman, your Benson. So strong it's almost admirable.

The SEAL's blood turned to ice. Her hand curled slightly into a fist inside the glove, the phone still pressed to her ear.

—She has a son, doesn't she? He continued, the words smooth and casual, as if discussing weather. Noah, right? Cute kid. Likes superheroes. Chocolate milk. You should see the way he looks at her–like she can stop anything bad from happening.

Something inside Alexis cracked. She didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't blink. But her body vibrated like a wire pulled too tight.

—You touch them, she said softly, dangerously, and I will end you.

The man laughed again. Not loud. Not cruel. Just matter-of-fact.

—That's the thing, Commander. You don't need to end me. You just need to walk away. Back off. Let SVU go. This isn't their fight.

—I don't run.

—I know. That's why I'm calling you first.

MONDAY, JUNE 12

Manhattan — FBI BUREAU

Violent Crimes Unit Floor

01:27 PM

The Violent Crimes Unit bullpen had settled into the peculiar quiet that always followed something seismic–not peace, not relief, but that dense, unsettled stillness that arrives when the adrenaline fades and reality takes its place. It was the hush after the raid, after the arrests, after the cries of rescued girls and the echo of slammed cell doors. Desks bore the scattered evidence of a long and brutal push–reports splayed open with notes scribbled in different hands, folders stacked half-cocked beneath the weight of half-drunk coffee cups. The air hung with the scent of too many people not sleeping, not eating, just surviving on caffeine and momentum. Outside, the Manhattan sky was choked with heavy gray clouds, light filtering through in a dull wash that painted everything in shades of exhaustion.

It should've felt like a victory.

It didn't.

Alexis sat motionless at her desk in the corner, spine curved forward, elbows braced tight on the manila folder thick enough to require staples just to keep it closed. The paper inside was dog-eared, fingerprinted, flecked with smudges of ink and something darker—old blood, maybe, dried and long since transferred from scene to surface. Her hands were bare now, gloves peeled off and tossed somewhere out of sight, fingers stained around the nails from hours in the field. Her hair, usually pulled into clean, efficient lines, had loosened into damp strands that clung to her temples and jaw, the humid weight of the day refusing to release its grip. A thin, ragged cut traced down from her brow, dried blood arcing past her cheekbone like a signature she hadn't earned. She hadn't bothered with a bandage. Hadn't cleaned it. It was just there–an afterthought, like everything else that didn't involve intel, logistics, or names on a list.

Her t-shirt was rumpled and rolled to the elbows, the black fabric damp around the collar and cuffs. The shoulder rig of her holster pressed visibly against her side every time she leaned in, the imprint of her weapon a reminder of how little distance there was between calm and crisis. But she wasn't fidgeting. Wasn't restless. She was stone-still–locked in the way only a soldier running on fumes and discipline could be. Her eyes flicked across the lines of a printed transcript, lips parted slightly, but she didn't speak. Didn't move.

Because Commander Gray was still working. Still digging. Still chasing the remnants of something that had already broken into pieces in front of her. The threat was neutralized, they kept saying–Elias Grant in custody, his lieutenants in processing, their ring dismantled in a raid that would make headlines by evening. But it wasn't done. Not for her. Not when the silence from Olivia had stretched longer than the distance between precincts. Not when the boy she had sworn to protect hadn't even known he was in danger. Not when it felt like saving them meant losing something else–something personal, something that kept her awake even now, long after the fight should've ended.

Miles reentered the bullpen with a brown paper bag in one hand and two coffees balanced precariously in the other. His shirt was still damp from the drizzle outside, collar darkened, sleeves rolled back to his forearms. He moved through the space with the practiced ease of someone who had spent years in rooms like this–rooms that smelled like sweat and printer toner and burnt nerves. He scanned for her before even setting the food down, because he already knew what he'd find. And he found it.

Alexis hadn't moved.

He set the bag and coffee down on the edge of her desk with a soft thud, careful not to cover the files she was dissecting. For a moment, he didn't speak–just stood there, watching the way her eyes remained fixed on the page in front of her like it had more to say than the rest of the room combined. She didn't blink. Didn't acknowledge him. But she didn't need to. He knew that silence. Knew it too well. It was the kind that came not from focus, but from holding something in. Something heavy. And personal.

—You know, I just spent seventeen dollars on sandwiches and pretended to care about the guy behind me's fantasy football draft, the agent said lightly, sliding a coffee closer to her elbow. The least you could do is pretend you're still human long enough to eat.

That earned him the smallest flicker of her gaze–quick, guarded–but she said nothing. Her jaw tightened, then relaxed, like the mere effort of lifting her head would cost more than she was willing to spend.

Miles sighed and dragged his chair to sit beside her, kicking one leg out and peeling back the bag with a rustle. The smell of roast beef and pickles wafted up between them, but the brunette didn't flinch. Didn't even inhale.

—You're bleeding, he said quietly, eyes landing on the gash above her brow. Still.

She didn't answer right away. Just closed the file and pushed it aside with slow, deliberate care. Her fingers lingered on the edge, pressing into the cardboard like she needed something solid to touch.

—I know, she said finally. Her voice was rough from disuse, scraped thin like it had been worn down by hours of silence.

Her partner watched her carefully. She looked like hell. But it wasn't the cut, or the circles under her eyes. It was the weight. The kind she carried in her spine, in the slope of her shoulders. The kind that didn't leave just because the perp was in custody.

—You want me to say it? You did it. We got him. You dismantled a trafficking ring. You did what we're supposed to do.

Alexis shook her head once, sharp and small.

—It's not done.

—It's over. He's behind glass. The DA's got enough to bury him. His crew's flipping already. And those girls? They're safe now.

She looked down, then. Finally. Her hands folded in her lap, but her posture didn't ease.

—They're safe because I pushed SVU out.

Miles frowned.

—Lex.

—I made Olivia think I was just another fed with a badge and a god complex, she said, voice barely above a whisper now. I let her believe I didn't care. That I was shutting them out because I didn't trust them.

He didn't interrupt. He just sat there, letting the silence stretch between them while his friend wrestled with the words clawing at the back of her throat. When she finally spoke, her voice had dropped low, barely more than a scrape of air across her teeth–controlled, but fraying at the edges.

—I did it to protect her. To protect Noah. Because if Grant thought they were involved, if he knew they were part of the investigation, he would've gone after them. He said it. Out loud. By name.

She paused, and for a moment, her chest didn't rise. Didn't fall. Like the memory alone had clamped down on her lungs and refused to let go.

—I made myself the target so he wouldn't look at them. So he'd think SVU was just collateral, not essential. Her voice cracked–not loudly, not enough to draw attention—but the agent heard it. Felt it. I don't regret the choice. But I hate that I had to make it.

He leaned forward slowly, resting his forearms on his knees, the sandwich long forgotten. His face was unreadable, patient in the way only someone who had sat beside her in raids and briefing rooms and late-night stakeouts could be.

—Have you talked to her?

Alexis shook her head, the motion slow, deliberate, like her body didn't quite want to admit it.

—Not since the fight.

No details, no qualifiers. Just that. The weight of those four words carried more than a full confession ever could.

A silence settled between them again–thicker now, like the air had turned to smoke and every breath scraped against it. It was the kind of pause that came when too many things had gone unsaid for too long, the kind that pressed into the chest and dared you to name what you'd been avoiding. Miles waited. He always did. He knew she'd get there when she was ready, or maybe just when it became too heavy to carry alone.

—I've been called in, she said next, as if she were mentioning a change in the weather. Her voice was casual, too even. Washington. SEAL liaison work. Just a few days, but... She shrugged, fingers drumming faintly against the desk. I leave tonight.

That caught him off guard. He straightened, brows lifting as the weight of her words landed.

—And you were just going to vanish? Without saying anything to her?

The brunette didn't flinch. Didn't defend herself. She just looked at the top of the folder in front of her like it held answers she wasn't brave enough to ask for.

—I haven't figured out what to say.

Her friend's sigh was soft, but not disappointed. Just tired.

—Try 'I'm sorry', he offered. Try 'I was protecting you'. Hell, try 'I miss you'. Any of those might work. He didn't expect her to answer–he knew better than to push her too far, too fast–but when she didn't even lift her head, something in him ached for her. For both of them.

He leaned closer, voice dropping as his expression softened.

—You should go. To the precinct. Before you leave.

She looked up then, finally, and for a breath, Miles saw past the rigid frame, past the iron-spined Commander the NAVY had made her into. Her eyes–red-rimmed, dry, but so full of ache–held something fragile and flickering. Fear, maybe. Or longing. Or some twisted, painful hybrid of both.

—What if it's not enough? she asked. And for a second, she sounded younger than she was. Not a SEAL. Not an agent. Just a woman who'd spent too long putting everyone else first.

—Then at least she'll know you tried.

He stood with a quiet scrape of his chair, grabbing his sandwich and straightening his jacket. The movement wasn't rushed. It was just him giving her space. Giving her time. But he paused at the edge of her desk, his voice gentler now.

—I'll take care of Champ, he said. Don't worry about him. You just... figure out how to stop shutting out the people who give a damn about you.

Alexis didn't reply. She didn't nod. Didn't argue.

But as he walked away, she reached–slowly, absently–for the coffee he'd left behind. Cradled it between her palms like it might anchor her to the moment. Her eyes stayed fixed on the desk, but something about the line of her shoulders shifted. Subtle. But real.

And for Miles, that was enough.

For now.

MONDAY, JUNE 12

Manhattan — 16th Precinct

SVU Bullpen

05:49 PM

The late afternoon light filtered in through the wide windows of the 16th Precinct, fractured and golden, catching in slanted lines across the worn tile floors and cluttered desks. It painted everything in that particular shade of Manhattan dusk–half-sunlight, half-shadow, all exhaustion.

The bullpen had softened from the day's chaos into something more subdued, its pulse slower, its edges dulled by fatigue. Phones still rang in the distance, a few keystrokes tapped out quiet final entries, but there was no rush anymore. Only the settling weight of work done–or nearly done–and the quiet murmur of detectives preparing to leave or linger. The overhead lights buzzed faintly with age, a low electrical sigh that seemed to hum in harmony with the slow creak of chairs, the scrape of folders being stacked for tomorrow. It was a scene that looked normal. Ordinary. But for Alexis, it was anything but.

She stood just inside the entrance to the squad room, as if her body had carried her forward while her mind stayed behind. Her boots, freshly polished, caught the light where she shifted her weight; her posture was rigid, the seams of her uniform jacket pulled crisp across her shoulders. She looked composed, perfectly composed—but only on the surface. The dark blue of her formal dress blues felt heavier than usual. The silver insignia on her chest glinted coldly beneath the low lights, not as a badge of pride, but as a reminder: she'd been built to hold the line, to follow the mission, to put the work first. She'd worn this uniform during briefings in D.C., during deployment extractions, even at funerals. And now she wore it here, in a room where no one else had ever needed to see her like this. Not like this.

Today, it wasn't armor. Not really. It was structure. A desperate bid to hold herself together, to wrap fabric and metal around the parts of her that still felt cracked from the inside. The lines of her uniform might've been pressed and perfect, but the storm building behind her ribs couldn't be smoothed out with starch and discipline. Not now. Not after the way she'd left things. Not when the one person she needed to see might not even want to look at her.

Still, she stood there, motionless, her hands hanging stiff at her sides, fingers twitching once before she clenched them into stillness. Her eyes scanned the bullpen not with a soldier's sweep, but with the hesitation of someone who didn't know where she belonged anymore. She didn't move forward. Didn't call out a name. Just waited–hoping for something she hadn't let herself name. Not yet.

She spotted them before she was ready. Near the back, just outside Olivia's office, where the light from the windows met the edge of shadow. Robbins stood with one hand braced casually on the doorframe, his body angled just enough to close the lieutenant in, but not enough to be inappropriate. His suit jacket hung open, his ID still clipped to his belt, and he was smiling that easy, practiced smile Alexis had seen him wear at briefings and late-night post-op coffees. He wasn't leaning in, not quite–but he didn't have to. The tone of his voice, low and almost playful, carried just far enough for Gray to catch snippets. Something about timing. About how good it had been, working together again. About how he'd meant to ask sooner, but the raid and the chaos had pushed things back.

The commander didn't move, didn't blink, but her chest tightened slowly, methodically, like a fist curling inward. She should've expected this. Robbins had always been smooth–charming in that affable, non-threatening way that made him popular with victims and agents alike. He was safe. Smart. He knew how to read a room. And he was doing it now, reading Olivia's posture, the slight tilt of her head, the way her lips pressed together in that not-quite-smile she wore when she was trying to be polite. Alexis could see the moment he went for it–the way his tone shifted just enough, hand lifting in a subtle gesture that looked like confidence more than risk.

He asked her to dinner.

Not in a big, dramatic way. No pressure. Just a suggestion. Just a moment between colleagues who had shared long hours and late nights and the same weariness about celebrating too soon. The brunette saw her friend's eyes widen just slightly, that flicker of surprise, of hesitancy. And then, without warning, those dark eyes lifted–and landed right on her.

It was only a second. Maybe less. But in that second, Alexis saw everything.

The recognition. The shift in Benson's spine, shoulders drawing back just enough. Surprise, then something colder. Not indifference–but distance. And before the agent could step forward, before she could open her mouth or even find air, she saw the oldest woman turn back to Robbins, smile–small, polite, but real–and nod.

—Sure, Olivia said, voice too soft for Alexis to hear, but the shape of the word was unmistakable. Dinner sounds nice.

The SEAL didn't move. Her feet felt bolted to the tile, her pulse echoing somewhere behind her ears. It wasn't the dinner. It wasn't even Robbins. It was what it meant–that Olivia had looked at her, had seen her, and still chosen someone else. Maybe not forever. Maybe not even consciously. But in that moment, the lieutenant had made her choice.

The brunette swallowed, her throat thick and dry. She didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Just stood there in her perfectly pressed uniform, back straight, insignia gleaming, jaw locked so tight it ached. There was no scene. No confrontation. No dramatic retreat. Just a quiet, invisible unraveling–one thread at a time.

She turned, eventually. Walked away with measured steps, not fast, not slow, her boots clicking faintly on the tile as the precinct moved on without her. She didn't speak. Didn't look back.

She didn't get what she came for. But she still had a plane to catch.

*BONUS SCENE*

MONDAY, JUNE 12

Washington D.C.

09:38 PM

The streets of Washington carried a quiet that was nothing like Manhattan's chaos. It wasn't peaceful, not really. It was too curated, too clean. The silence felt pressed into the concrete, as if the city itself demanded composure from everyone who passed through its corridors of power. The air here was thicker, heavy with moisture and memory, scented not with the pulse of life and motion like New York, but with something older–stone worn smooth by storms, the distant hum of bureaucracy, the faint, metallic sting of ambition. Government buildings rose in stoic lines in the distance, their windows catching slivers of the dying light, their shadows long and precise beneath the soft spill of lamplight. It was the kind of city where things happened behind closed doors, and if you stood too long in one place, the weight of it might settle in your lungs.

Alexis stood at the edge of a block she hadn't thought she'd see again, not like this. The townhouse in front of her hadn't changed much. Still ivy curling over the railing like it belonged there more than the mail. Still a porch light left on, more from habit than expectation. It looked lived-in, but distant. Familiar, but not hers. She didn't move, not at first. Just stood there in the cool dusk, hands tucked into the too-long sleeves of a navy sweater she didn't remember packing. Her jeans were worn in the knees, not from fashion but from time, and her boots were silent against the stone. She felt small here, not in stature, but in presence–like a shadow waiting for permission to be real again.

There was no badge clipped to her belt. No holster pulling at her ribs. No patches, no medals, nothing sharp to remind people she was built to carry pain and deliver order. Just cotton and denim and silence. Civilian. Untethered. She'd traded steel for softness, and still, it didn't make her feel any less breakable. The weight she carried didn't rest in her hands or shoulders–it pressed inward, behind her ribs, where heartbreak had carved a space and refused to leave.

She hadn't expected it to cut this deep. Hadn't expected Olivia to look at her like that–like a stranger. Like a polite footnote in her day. One brief glance, a nod, and then that quiet smile when she said yes to someone else. Robbins. Of all people. It was almost laughable, if it hadn't felt like being punched in the chest by something she didn't know how to name. She had stood there in uniform, ready to explain, to apologize, to fight–and instead, she'd watched it all slip out of reach.

So she came here. Not because it made sense, but because instinct dragged her. Because when you had nowhere left to fall, sometimes you circled back to the places that first taught you how to stand. And this city, this address, this door–it knew who she used to be. Maybe that was enough. Maybe that was all she had left.

The porch creaked beneath her boots as Alexis finally moved forward, the old wood groaning like it remembered her weight. Her hand hovered for a moment above the doorbell, knuckles tight, breath caught somewhere just behind her collarbone. It had been years–long enough for this visit to feel unannounced, maybe even inappropriate. But still, her fingers found the button, pressed it once, then stepped back like she needed space to brace for whatever would come next. The chime echoed softly inside. And then silence.

Her heart beat too loudly in that quiet. Not the tactical rhythm she relied on during raids or interrogations–but something more brittle, more uncertain. She could still feel Olivia's face in her mind, clear as glass. That gentle smile. That nod. That soft Sure as she accepted another man's invitation. Not cruel. Not angry. Just... final. And the commander couldn't shake the feeling that she'd missed her moment. That she'd held out too long behind duty and protocol and fear. That she'd given her silence when what the lieutenant had needed was truth.

The lock turned from the other side of the door.

When it opened, the hallway behind it looked exactly the same–warm, narrow, a little cluttered. Familiar in the way old safety nets are. The woman who appeared in the frame was older now, but not by much. A few more lines around her eyes, her hair pulled into a loose bun, a phone still in one hand, thumb hovering mid-text. She stopped when she saw Alexis, blinking like a memory had just stepped out of the past.

—Alex? she said, voice halfway between confusion and recognition. Her tone wasn't sharp, but it carried the weight of years–good and bad–compressed into a single name.

The SEAL gave a small, uneven smile and rubbed the back of her neck, sheepish in a way that didn't suit her broad shoulders or quiet intensity.

—Hey, she said, the word soft, like it didn't quite know where it belonged. You got room for an old friend?

The woman stepped back without hesitation, not a flicker of doubt in her eyes as she moved aside and let the door fall open wider. She didn't say anything at first–didn't ask why Alexis was there, or why her voice had sounded like it hadn't been used in hours. She just looked at her, really looked, in that way only someone who'd once known you better than you knew yourself could. There was no dramatic embrace, no gasped reunion. Just the quiet permission offered by someone who understood that sometimes, returning didn't require words.

Only space.

—For you? Always.

TAGLIST: @certainlysleepy @ginasbaby @nciscmjunkie @thefatobsession @makkaroni221 @hi-i-1 @kiwiana145 @kobayashi-fr @alexis042499

#lala’s fic recs *ೃ༄#𓏲 ₊˚๑( jul ‘25 fic recs )໑‧₊˚.ꪆ #olivia benson fic recs

22 notes · View notes

enretrogue · 1 month ago

Text

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 21 • This Is How It Ends

TAGLIST FORM

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary:

Content Warning: Usual SVU & Violent Crime talk • Human Trafficking - religious case - mention of religious words - children trafficking - bruises - hospitals - violence - youth facility - people fighting, blood, people arguing

Elias Grant believed in order.

Not justice, not compassion–order. The kind that justified control over the powerless. The kind that made children property, and fear currency. He'd built his version of salvation brick by brick, hidden in plain sight behind sermons and safe spaces, youth mentorships and reformation programs. To the public, he was a reformed ex-con turned community advocate. To those beneath him, he was a quiet storm with God on his side and blood on his hands.

He didn't recruit. He selected. Found the children no one would come looking for. He knew how to make them compliant, how to break the ones who resisted without leaving a mark that would hold up in court. Most of them didn't speak up. And if one tried? He had people for that, too–like Hale, the middleman. Like those paid to make the loud ones disappear.

But someone had spoken.

Her name was Maria Cortez. Fourteen years old, small for her age, with wary eyes and a spine that hadn't yet learned to bend. She wasn't supposed to be at the front of the church that night. Just another quiet girl in the background, handing out programs, smiling when told. But between one song and the next, between hollow praise and polished lies, the young girl stumbled–then collapsed–right there on the marble steps beneath the pulpit, in full view of the congregation.

It was the second charity gala Grant's church had hosted that week. City officials had attended, donors had smiled. Elias himself had been mid-sermon when Maria's legs gave out. The audience gasped. Ushers rushed forward. He'd crouched beside her, played the concerned mentor, one hand on her back, his voice low and steady as he whispered something no one else heard. But his protégée flinched.

And when she looked up–her eyes found Olivia's.

She wasn't even supposed to be there. The lieutenant had come with a city liaison, covering for another captain. She hadn't known what she was walking into. Not until she saw the bruises just above the girl's collarbone. Not until the latter reached for her hand as the paramedics arrived.

Later, in the quiet of the hospital room, Maria didn't say much. She didn't have to. Olivia knew the language of the silenced. And when her detective showed her the matching marks on another girl they'd found three days earlier–this one still missing the words to name her abuser–the brunette knew. This wasn't neglect. It was orchestration.

And it was going to take more than SVU to tear it down.

SATURDAY, JUNE 10

Manhattan — Surveillance Van

5:42 PM

The inside of the van was cramped and dim, the kind of space that seemed to hum with a low, constant tension, as if the walls themselves knew the stakes. It was cluttered in the way most surveillance vehicles were–functional chaos. Coils of cable curled like vines at the base of steel equipment racks, while monitors flickered with grainy feeds in shifting light, each one offering a different window into the mentoring center down the street.

The glow of blinking LEDs bathed the space in soft, pulsing reds and greens, strobing against the metal casing of the gear and the pale skin of its occupants. The air was stale and dry, thick with the scent of dust, aging plastic, and wiring that had run hot too many times. Somewhere near the back, a paper cup of untouched coffee sat cooling on a metal shelf, forgotten hours ago. The faint static of live audio feeds layered in the background like a heartbeat beneath the silence.

Alexis sat closest to the main console, angled slightly forward as though any moment might demand movement. One boot pressed flat to the floor, the other perched on the narrow bench ledge beneath her, giving her a low, grounded posture that read casual at a glance but wasn't. Her forearm rested lightly on her raised knee, fingers loosely curled, her entire body still except for her eyes–sharp and restless as they followed the shifting feeds across the monitors.

Hidden cameras inside the youth facility offered narrow glimpses of rooms that looked like safety on the surface: art tables, chairs in a circle, cheap motivational posters about healing and change. But the commander saw the spaces between the frames. The dead zones. The corners where silence lived.

She hadn't spoken much since they parked.

Not even to Robbins, the gruff tech agent who'd been manning the equipment since before either of them were with the Bureau, or to Miles, seated just a breath away on the opposite side of the van. Her silence wasn't cold–it was the kind that formed when thought hardened into vigilance. The kind that came from knowing you couldn't afford to miss a single flicker on the screen.

And the longer she stared, the more that stillness set into her like gravity, like tension coiled deep in the marrow of her bones and settling there without invitation. She looked like someone holding her breath without realizing it, waiting for something to break the surface.

The agent shifted beside her, his shoulder brushing hers slightly as he reached forward to adjust the gain on one of the audio channels. His eyes flicked to the screen, then to her profile, and lingered.

—You slept at all last night? he asked, voice pitched just above the static hum.

Alexis didn't look at him. Her gaze stayed locked on the grainy overhead view of a rec room, where Amand–undercover in jeans and a heather-gray hoodie–was handing out notebooks to a cluster of teens seated in an uneven semicircle. Her voice fed in through the van speakers, calm and level. Just another counselor trying to build trust.

The brunette exhaled slowly, the breath tight in her chest as it left her nose.

—I closed my eyes.

Her partner waited. She didn't look at him. Didn't go on.

Then, quieter–more tired than she meant to let slip–she added, "Didn't do much else."

He nodded once, mouth drawn into a line. He didn't need her to explain. He knew. Not since the fever. Not since she'd finally crashed in that bed with a damp cloth on her forehead and Olivia watching her like she might slip through her fingers. Not since she let herself sleep because, for the first time in weeks, someone had been there to make sure she could.

She didn't mention any of that. She didn't have to.

Miles didn't say a word. Just leaned back slowly, one hand resting on his thigh as he returned his gaze to the monitors. Let her keep her silence.

Across from them, the oldest agent–grizzled and irritable in a way only twenty-five years of wire taps and grainy feeds could make someone–grunted under his breath as he tapped at the controls.

—Mic three's crapping out. Switching to backup. Your counselor's headed east wing–looks like she's walking one of the girls toward the rec side.

The brunette gave a faint nod, her voice low.

—Copy.

She leaned forward, elbow balanced on her knee, eyes sharp and fixed. Her fingers twitched once, the only sign that her body was already calculating movement. Robbins tapped at the console, the monitors flickering in delayed sync as camera feeds shifted angles.

Then he sat up straighter, brows furrowing.

—Hold up, he said, squinting at the feed. That guy just came in through the service door. East hallway camera. You see him?

Alexis leaned in further, the grainy image resolving into a tall man in a windbreaker with a too-relaxed gait and something unreadable in his face. She didn't need a second glance.

—Hale, she said under her breath, pulse sharpening.

Robbins glanced at her.

—Thought he skipped town.

—Looks like he came back for cleanup.

On screen, Grant's middleman approached Amanda in the hallway, casual like a colleague. His hand landed lightly on her arm–too familiar. He was saying something, but the lip sync was just a second off from the backup mic. Then the detective nodded, visible hesitation masked by her undercover calm.

The grizzled man adjusted the audio delay.

—Here we go. Picking up their exchange...

Hale's voice filtered in, smooth and businesslike: "She's new. Quiet one. Barely conscious, but she's been moved around a lot. Probably just needs rest."

Then, too low for anyone else in the room to hear, but just loud enough for the upgraded mic to catch: "We can process her offsite. I need you to help me move her."

The words came with a casual ease, too practiced. Too used to getting away with it.

Alexis stiffened, her spine going rigid as if the sound alone had wired directly into her nervous system. Her hand had already left her knee and curled into a tight fist beside her. She didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Just stared at the monitor where the suspect leaned in toward Rollins, a hand lightly resting on the girl's shoulder like he owned her.

Like she was just another thing to be moved.

Beside her, Miles caught the shift in her body and leaned forward. His voice was low, trying not to tip the balance.

—She's setting him up, he murmured.

He knew that tone in their SVU colleague's voice–steady, measured, stalling just enough to keep Hale from rushing. Trying to buy time. The blonde was good. But Langford also knew Alexis. And right now, she wasn't hearing him.

The SEAL was already somewhere else. Already slipping into the place she went when things stopped being just tactical and started being personal.

The middleman had made that shift for her the moment Maria Cortez collapsed on the marble floor and looked up at Olivia like she was the first safe thing she'd seen in months. The moment they found the second girl, silent and shaking with the same marks on her ribs. The moment the evidence began to stack into a pattern that pointed not just to a system of abuse–but to the fact that someone had built it, carefully and strategically, to avoid being caught. Hale had been at the center of that pattern. And now he was about to vanish into the margins again if they didn't act.

—I'm going, Gray said, her voice flat and focused, more like a decision than a statement.

Miles reached out, hand catching her arm before she could stand fully.

—Wait. We loop in Benson. Carisi and her are right there–

—We don't have time.

Her voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. The steel in it was unmistakable.

Her partner knew that look in her eyes. Knew it from field raids, from missions that hadn't made it into official reports. It wasn't recklessness–it was precision under pressure. But it was also something else tonight. Something quieter. Something that had less to do with Hale as a target and more to do with the quiet fire still smoldering inside her from the last time Olivia had touched her arm and told her she needed rest. The last time she'd slept through the night because her friend had sat beside her and simply stayed.

—You stay with Amanda, Alexis added, already rising. Make sure the girl gets out.

—Lex–

But she was gone, sliding the van door open and dropping to the pavement without another word. She moved like shadow–low, fast, silent–as she ducked into the alley. No comms, no backup. No waiting.

Robbins muttered something under his breath, but neither man tried to stop her.

Inside the Center — East Wing

Amanda kept her breathing even, deliberately matching the sluggish rhythm of the barely-conscious girl she supported, one arm wrapped firmly around the child's narrow shoulders. The girl couldn't have been more than thirteen, maybe fourteen if that, though the bruising beneath her eyes and the thinness of her limbs aged her by more than years. Her sneakers scuffed and dragged with every step, soles slapping the linoleum floor like she'd lost track of her body hours ago. Her lips were dry and split, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Whatever they had given her had long since crossed the line between sedation and suppression–this wasn't medication; this was control by chemical leash.

The detective adjusted her grip slightly, gently shifting the weight without drawing attention, just enough to keep the girl upright without appearing too careful. She couldn't risk seeming too compassionate.

Not here.

Hale moved beside her with an infuriating calm, the same casual stride he might've used to give a tour or hand out pamphlets. There was no hesitation in his voice, no indication that he was aware just how deeply he'd exposed himself minutes earlier.

—She came in last night, he said as if he were talking about a stray cat or a defective shipment. Family's long gone. Bounced between three placements. No one's gonna chase her. She'll fight a little, maybe. But she'll fall in line. They always do. A week, tops.

He looked over at Amanda with a faint smile, like they shared some private understanding.

—You've got the touch. Thought it'd be better if it came from someone like you.

The blonde nodded, and nothing more. Her stomach had curled in on itself the moment he said a week. She could already picture what that week would look like, what it had looked like for the others who never made it out. But on the surface, she stayed steady. Eyes neutral. Posture compliant. She was still the counselor, still the careful new recruit who hadn't asked too many questions. She couldn't afford to be Amanda Rollins, not yet.

Not until they had something real to tie back to Elias Grant himself. Not until she could name the pipeline, the accounts, the so-called "upstate cabin" that Hale kept referencing like it was some sanctuary rather than a private holding site. The way he said I've got a system chilled her–because he meant it. He believed in it. And as a detective, she needed him to keep talking.

The girl beside her sagged heavier, her legs barely cooperating now. The detective tightened her hold in response, seamlessly, like this wasn't the hundredth time she'd caught a child on the verge of collapse.

The hallway narrowed as they turned the corner, the overhead lights blinking in lazy stutters. She recognized the blind spot–Robbins had flagged it during setup. It was one of the few areas left without visual coverage. Perfect for what the middleman had in mind. And Rollins? She kept walking. Because to break cover now was to lose everything. She had to walk into the dark with him.

Hale gestured to a locked storage door up ahead.

—We'll wait here. I've got someone bringing the keys for the back lot. There's a van coming. He looked over at her again, this ime with a touch more calculation. You've been good with them. Thought maybe it's time we loop you into the bigger picture.

Amanda tilted her head just enough to seem curious, not eager.

—What bigger picture?

Her tone was quiet, her Southern drawl worn down to something calm and cooperative. The perfect counselor's voice.

He gave her that smile again.

—Grant's expanding. We've got too many mouths and not enough rooms. Cabin's just the start. You keep showing up like this, there might be a place for you in the new phase. Offsite placements. Permanent care. You get what I mean.

The woman nodded again, this time slower. Her eyes never left his.

—He ever come around here?

—Sometimes, Hale shrugged. But he keeps things clean. Doesn't like to be seen with the day-to-day. That's what people like me are for. He turned then, pacing a little, one eye on the hallway behind them. You meet him when he wants to be met. Until then, you prove yourself.

Amanda swallowed once, carefully.

—And when's that?

—Soon. He looked back at the girl, then at his new colleague. Helping with her–that's part of it.

It took everything she had not to move, not to betray the shiver crawling up her spine. The girl whimpered softly, barely audible. The blonde angled her body, shielding her just slightly more with her frame.

Before she could respond, the man reached for his phone, his brow furrowing.

—Where the hell is—

And then came the voice. Behind them. Sharp. Commanding.

—Hale!

He spun, startled–and the detective turned just in time to see Alexis emerge from the hallway shadows, sidearm raised, stance wide, her presence filling the narrow corridor like a storm breaking through glass.

—FBI, the agent said, voice low and lethal. Step away from the girl.

Amanda didn't move. She kept the girl against her, eyes flicking between the two. This hadn't been the plan–not yet–but something in the commander's face said there was no more waiting.

And their suspect?

He ran.

SATURDAY, JUNE 10

Manhattan — Behind the Youth Mentorship Center

8:42 PM

The alley behind the youth center was a breathless pocket of heat and grime, tucked between brick walls that sweated in the heavy press of summer. The air was thick with the stench of baked garbage and something darker–acrid and sour, like oil and old fear. A row of dented dumpsters slouched against one wall like broken teeth, their lids cracked open just enough to let the rot breathe. Something buzzed near the nearest bin–flies, maybe, or something worse.

Farther down, a rusted chain-link fence marked the alley's end, its top twisted and bent where someone had once scrambled over in desperation, the links still glinting faintly beneath a flickering streetlamp that cast light in unreliable pulses. Every few seconds the glow faltered, and for the briefest of moments, everything dipped into shadow–then snapped back into sharp, silvery clarity.

It was in that uncertain strobe of light and dark that Alexis caught him.

There hadn't been time for words. Hale had bolted the second Amanda's distraction failed, and Alexis had given chase without hesitation–out through the back door, over a stack of broken crates, heart hammering not from exertion but fury. She'd had enough. Of the pretending. Of the process. Of watching victims slip through their fingers while men like Hale disappeared into bureaucratic smoke.

No more.

She caught him mid-turn, the heel of his boot scraping against asphalt as he tried to pivot, to run. But she was faster. She grabbed the back of his collar, slammed him sideways into the nearest wall so hard the brick shuddered beneath the impact. He let out a sharp, choked noise–half grunt, half plea–but she didn't let up. She didn't even pause.

Her forearm pressed hard across his throat, pinning him flat to the wall. Her body weight angled forward, leveraging every inch of her into the hold. The middleman's fingers clawed weakly at her wrist, nails dragging down her sleeve, but she didn't feel it. Didn't care. His lip was already split from the first hit she'd thrown just seconds earlier–an instinctive blow, raw and unplanned, that had caught him across the jaw hard enough to ring his ears. Blood trickled down from the corner of his mouth, bright against the stubble on his chin, and his right eye was beginning to puff shut.

He smelled like panic and decay. Sweat soaked through his collar, mixing with cheap drugstore cologne and the underlying stench of nerves. But beneath it all was something fouler. Something old. Alexis didn't have a name for it, but she'd smelled it before. In holding cells. In interrogation rooms. In other alleys just like this one, where men like Hale met the wall after thinking themselves untouchable.

She stared into his face, breath shallow, jaw clenched. Her fingers flexed once, involuntarily, as if her body still debated whether to hit him again or hold him still. Dust from the mortar rained lightly across her shoulders as he writhed and failed to gain leverage. He wasn't just trapped.

He was cornered.

—You run again, Alexis said, her voice low and razor-sharp, carved from stone. And I will not be this polite.

The words landed like a second blow–cold and final. They didn't need volume to carry weight. There was nothing theatrical about her threat, nothing she'd need to justify later. It was a promise. And for the first time, the suspect seemed to hear it for what it was.

He coughed–a wet, scraping sound that might've been a laugh, or might've been the ragged aftermath of his failed attempt to breathe around the pressure of her forearm. His lips twisted into a grin, but it was sloppy now, streaked red. Blood coated his teeth and painted the cracks at the corner of his mouth like war paint. He blinked slowly, one eye already purpling, and rasped out, "Agent Gray... Didn't know you liked it this rough."

She didn't answer. She just hit him.

Her fist landed clean across his cheekbone, not full-force–she didn't need him unconscious–but hard enough to make his head snap sideways into the brick, hard enough to steal the breath from his lungs and replace it with the taste of rust and regret. He sagged slightly under her grip, wheezing through his teeth, and for a moment, the bravado slipped. For the first time since she'd laid eyes on him, Hale looked afraid.

And Alexis leaned in closer.

—No more hiding behind children. No more soft hands, no more lawyers, no more sermons. You're done, Hale. You and your little brotherhood of monsters.

The words echoed between the alley walls, swallowed and spit back by the heat that clung like wet cloth to their skin. Hale's head lolled slightly against the bricks, one eye nearly swollen shut, the other gleaming with something twisted. His lips parted with a wet sound, and then he coughed–a sharp, painful burst that shook his chest. Blood frothed at the corner of his mouth, dark and thick, bubbling into the mockery of a grin.

—You think this ends with me? he rasped, voice hoarse, splintered. You really think I'm the worst of it?

The commander didn't hesitate.

—I know it doesn't, she snapped, the words slicing clean through the space between them.

Her breath was coming faster now–not from the sprint that had led her here, not from the blow she'd landed, but from the slow, suffocating pressure of everything that had led to this exact moment. The weight of months. Of years. Of silence endured and lines crossed. Of girls like Maria, like the one Amanda had just walked out with–drugged, used, and discarded like ghosts in borrowed bodies.

Her chest rose and fell, each inhale feeling too small for the fire beneath her ribs.

—I know exactly what you are, she hissed. You're the delivery boy. The middleman. The smiling face they send to make it all feel less monstrous. But I've got you now. I've got the thread. And you better believe I'm going to pull it–hard. I will unravel every last knot you bastards tied. I'll drag it all into the light. Grant. His funders. The cowards who wrote the checks. Every man who called it mentorship while he watched girls fall apart under him.

Hale chuckled again, but the sound cracked in the middle. Blood painted his teeth, too bright against the raw pink of his gums, and something broken lived in the way his mouth curled. His expression had lost all pretense of civility–it was animal now, cornered and defiant. He shifted slightly under her grip, not trying to escape, just to speak close enough that she couldn't mistake the edge in his voice.

—You've been warned.

The words slithered through the heat-thick air, slow and deliberate, like venom sliding down a blade. Alexis didn't move right away. She didn't speak. But something in her went still–an imperceptible shift. Her jaw remained locked, her face unreadable, but her spine straightened in that military way that betrayed more than any expression ever could. Not fear. Not hesitation.

Recognition.

Hale saw it. And smiled.

That grotesque, broken mouth widened through blood and bruises, his lip split and leaking. He leaned forward as far as the cuffs and the wall behind him would let him, emboldened by her silence, by the thing she hadn't said.

—Oh, he crooned, voice dragging like nails across rusted metal. He told you, didn't he? His breath wheezed through his teeth, bloody and gleeful. Called you directly. That's special. Usually he just lets us handle things. But you... He let the word hang in the heat between them like a smirk. He sees you. And her. The one with the badge. And the boy.

The brunette's fist curled before her mind even caught up. Tight. Controlled. Dangerous. Her breath didn't hitch from panic–it caught from fury barely leashed, a slow, coiled inhale as she stared down at the man like she was memorizing every inch of his face for later.

—You want to see what I do when someone threatens a child?

Her voice wasn't raised. It didn't need to be. It carried the kind of stillness that silenced rooms. The kind of calm that came before the breaking of something fragile–or the breaking of someone who deserved it.

—You picked the wrong agents, Hale. Her eyes didn't flicker. You picked the wrong case. And if you think Grant scares me... She stepped closer, just a breath, her presence like a storm closing in. You should be afraid of what happens when I stop caring about the rules altogether.

His expression flickered–just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not fear. Not yet. But it was close. It was the beginning of understanding.

She stepped back slowly, boots scraping softly against the grit of the alley floor, and let his weight collapse downward. His knees hit the pavement with a sound that was swallowed by the hum of the city and the approach of footsteps from the rear lot. Sirens hadn't come yet–but they would. She could hear the pounding of tactical boots drawing near, could already see Carisi's flashlight catching motes of heat-thick dust in the corner of her vision.

The middleman was on his knees, shoulders slumped, hands bound behind him, blood streaking his cheekbones like war paint gone wrong. But Alexis didn't look away. Not yet. She stared down at him with a kind of gravity that belonged to people who had seen too much and decided to keep going anyway.

—You tell him I'm coming. Tell him I'm not scared. And tell him next time? I don't wait for a warrant.

The light swept in then, strobing against the alley walls. Voices rose—Olivia's voice, the shout of uniforms moving in. Flashlights bounced off brick and chain-link, and the faint smell of burning wiring mixed with sweat and blood.

Hale looked up at her one last time as they dragged him to his feet. His smile returned–weak now, cracking with pain but still there. Still rotted with arrogance.

—Then I hope he kills you first.

SUNDAY, JUNE 11

Manhattan — 16th Precinct

Benson's Office

02:14 AM

The blinds were drawn, but they could keep everything out. The faint orange wash of Manhattan's sleepless glow still bled in at the edges, slipping between the slats in sharp, uneven streaks. It cast narrow cuts of light across the dark floor, across the paper-strewn desk, carving shadows across Olivia's office like a crime scene frozen in amber. Outside, the city breathed in sirens and exhaust, but inside, it was a different kind of quiet–thick, heavy, almost sentient.

The room felt suspended in the kind of stillness that only comes in the dead hours between night and dawn, when the weight of everything said and unsaid doesn't fade with exhaustion but grows teeth. The overhead light had been switched off hours ago, leaving just the desk lamp's low flicker to fight the dark, and even that seemed hesitant to burn. The air was dry, the HVAC system groaning with age in the ceiling like a tired beast trying to pretend it wasn't dying.

Somewhere beyond the glass walls, the faint murmur of voices drifted in again–Miles, maybe Amanda, maybe Carisi–tones low and careful, like they all knew better than to raise their voices with the storm still trapped behind that office door. The bullpen, dim and mostly abandoned, carried the echo of movement–chairs shifting, shoes brushing the floor, the occasional rustle of a file being restacked–but none of it touched the silence in here.

In here, there were only two people.

And too many things they weren't saying.

Alexis stood near the window, arms folded tight across her chest like armor that no longer fit right. The amber light from the city sliced across her features, highlighting the fatigue clinging to the edges of her jaw, the hollowness carved beneath her eyes. Her shoulders were tense, too straight for someone who'd been awake this long, too rigid for someone who'd already delivered a suspect into federal custody.

She hadn't sat down since they stepped into the office. Olivia hadn't invited her to, and the brunette hadn't dared to ask. It was a standoff, but not the kind you trained for. This was slower. Meaner. Heavy with the weight of betrayal that hadn't been named yet.

The lieutenant leaned against the edge of her desk, fingers curled around the wood like she needed something to hold on to. Her gaze hadn't left the commander once. Not since the door shut behind them, not since the reports came in from the Bureau and confirmed what she'd already suspected–that the arrest was clean, that Hale was in federal hands, and that SVU wasn't just out of the loop, they'd been cut from the case entirely. And Alexis, the woman Olivia had started to trust–not just as an agent, but as something more human, more personal–had done it without a word. Without warning. Without her.

—How long were you planning to keep me in the dark? The oldest woman asked, finally. Her voice was low, brittle with restraint. It didn't rise. It didn't need to. It cracked between them like old glass.

Gray didn't flinch, but her throat moved with a swallow she couldn't disguise.

—It wasn't about trust.

—No? Olivia laughed, bitter and quiet. Because it sure as hell felt like a decision made behind closed doors. You handed Hale over to your unit, walked away from the squad, and now we're supposed to... what? Stay in our lane?

—You were never supposed to be in danger, Alexis said, and it came out sharper than she intended. Her voice folded back into something steadier, more contained. This was always FBI jurisdiction, Liv. You know that. You said it yourself–interstate transport, drugging minors, organized trafficking. The moment we had probable cause on the cabin upstate, we moved.

—You moved. You didn't loop us in. You didn't call me. Not even a heads-up. We could've helped. We've been helping.

The brunette looked away then, toward the window, where the edge of a distant billboard flickered through a break in the blinds. Her hand flexed once at her side before curling back into a fist. There were words she wanted to say, words she couldn't. Not without putting the SVU boss in more danger. Not without dragging her son into the darkness Elias Grant had promised. And that was a line she wouldn't cross. Not ever.

—I did what I had to do, she said quietly. It was the closest she could come to the truth without cracking open everything she'd sworn to protect.

But Olivia pushed forward now, frustration blooming into something deeper–hurt, betrayal, something more complicated than either of them had language for.

—You're not the only one who cares about these kids, Alexis. Don't stand there and act like this burden is yours alone. We're a team. Or we were.

That hit harder than anything else could have. Alexis's jaw twitched, and for the first time since they walked in, her expression faltered. She wasn't good at this–lying to people she respected. Lying to her. Especially her. And Benson didn't know. Didn't know about the call. The voice that had slithered through the SEAL's burner line days earlier, calm and certain, promising blood if she didn't step back. Promising Noah. By name.

Alexis hadn't slept since.

And yet, in this room, in this moment, none of that mattered. Not to Olivia. Not when all she could see was the woman standing in front of her acting like the case they had been working side by side for days had never really belonged to both of them. That it had always been Bureau-first, command-first, chain-of-command, jurisdiction, and all the other bureaucratic shields that came up when things got too real, too personal.

She felt it bloom hot behind her ribs–the rage, yes, but more than that, the wound. Because this wasn't just a partner cutting corners. This was Alexis, who'd fought beside her, who'd laughed with Noah in her kitchen, who'd sat across from her with quiet eyes that had made the lieutenant feel–for a flicker of time–less alone.

—You know, she said, her voice low but serrated now. I thought you were different.

The agent turned back toward her, slow, cautious, like approaching a ledge. Her lips parted, but nothing came out at first. Her friend didn't wait.

—I really did, she went on, her arms folded, but it wasn't a defensive gesture anymore–it was containment, a dam holding back something volcanic. You weren't like the others. You didn't treat us like we were in your way. You didn't talk down, didn't disappear behind closed doors and NDAs and jurisdictional bullshit. And I let myself believe–for one second–that maybe the feds weren't all the same.

—I'm not— Alexis started, too fast, too brittle.

But the oldest steamrolled past it.

—You are. You pulled us in just long enough to make use of what we had. Then, when it got too hot–when you had what you needed–you locked us out. And you didn't even have the decency to tell me to my face.

—That's not true. That's not what I—

—Then what is it? Olivia snapped. Because right now, all I see is another federal agent who got what she wanted and left us out in the cold.

The commander's breath caught. She looked down, jaw tightening, hands flexing once before curling into fists at her sides. She couldn't even meet the woman's eyes now. Not because she was wrong–but because she was right in every way that mattered. Alexis had shut the door. She had walked Hale into federal custody and pulled the entire case with her. Not because she didn't care. Not because she thought she was better. But because Grant had spoken Noah's name like a vow. Because she'd spent every second since imagining how she'd rip him apart if he ever touched that boy. Because she would burn every part of her career, every part of herself, to make sure Olivia and her son stayed safe. And she couldn't even tell her that.

So she stood there, suffocating on silence. Letting the lieutenant believe the worst of her. Because that was the cost. Because protecting them meant being the villain, even if it broke her in the process.

—I didn't mean for it to happen like this, she said, finally. Her voice cracked somewhere between the words, and she cleared her throat like it might bury the sound. You have every right to be angry. I just–there are things I can't tell you. Not yet.

Olivia let out a sharp, incredulous breath and pushed off the desk.

—Right. Of course. Classified. National security. The usual excuses.

Alexis didn't move. She couldn't. If she reached for the lieutenant now, if she even stepped forward, she might do something reckless–say something that would unravel every hard line she'd drawn to protect them both.

—I'm not your enemy, she whispered, not even sure the woman would hear it.

But Benson had already turned toward the door. Not to leave. Just to put space between them. Her hand hovered near her hip, like she wasn't sure whether she wanted to scream or brace herself on something solid.

—You should go, she said. Her voice had dropped to something quieter, something colder. You've got what you wanted. And it's not like I need another reminder of how dispensable this squad is to people like you.

The brunette stood frozen in the center of the office,staring at the woman she wanted more than anything to protect–and realizing that in doing so, she may have already lost her.

And outside, the city didn't care. The lights kept humming. The sirens kept moving. And somewhere, far below the glass and steel of Manhattan, a man named Elias Grant smiled in the dark–knowing his words had hit the right target.

TAGLIST: @certainlychaotic @ginasbaby @nciscmjunkie @thefatobsession @makkaroni221 @hi-i-1 @kiwiana145 @kobayashi-fr @alexis042499

#lala’s fic recs *ೃ༄#𓏲 ₊˚๑( jul ‘25 fic recs )໑‧₊˚.ꪆ #olivia benson fic recs

24 notes · View notes

enretrogue · 1 month ago

Text

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 20 • Suckers for Lost Causes

TAGLIST FORM

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

⚠️DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary:

Content Warning: Usual SVU & Violent Crime talk • mention of an ongoing SVU case - Human Trafficking - BASED ON SEASON 18, EPISODE 17 of L&O SVU

MONDAY, MAY 01

Manhattan — Langford's house

07:58 PM

—You're late.

Miles leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and posture relaxed, the smirk on his face already giving away that he wasn't truly annoyed. The warm light behind him poured out onto the stoop, painting the steps in gold and stretching across the concrete until it hit the polished shoes of the woman standing just beyond it. The expression he wore was familiar–teasing, expectant–but it faltered for a brief second when he took in the sight of her.

The brunette didn't bother justifying herself beyond a dry glance upward, adjusting the strap of the bag slung loosely over her shoulder. She exhaled, the breath subtle but tired, and lifted a brow as if to say she was here, wasn't she? That should be enough.

—Blame Manhattan traffic, she replied, her tone clipped but calm. Or your terrible dinner hour.

But the words weren't what caught the man off guard. It was her–or rather, how she looked. Not the version of her the world usually got. There were no cargo pants, no service boots, no Kevlar jacket or FBI windbreaker. No hard stare or badge hanging at her hip. The woman in front of him looked like someone the city might pass by without clocking the sheer number of fights she'd survived–internal, external, silent, loud.

Tonight, Alexis wore fitted black tailored pants and a white tank top, the hem of it disappearing neatly into her waistband. Over it, she'd shrugged on a white silk shirt, only partially buttoned and so light it moved with every shift of her frame. A dark gray blazer rested atop it all, sharp enough in the shoulders to hint at her usual structure, but relaxed in a way that made her look... softened. Her hair was still damp from a quick shower, left down to air-dry and fall in uneven waves around her shoulders. She looked like she'd walked out of a quiet art gallery or a downtown wine bar. Not a briefing room. Not a SEAL command tent.

She looked–Miles had to admit it–effortless. Like a woman living a life. Cool, understated, comfortable in her skin. Almost gentle, if you didn't know what she could do with five seconds and a sidearm.

His gaze dragged briefly over the silk shirt, amused.

—Is that silk?

The agent gave him a look–flat, knowing, and lethal in its dryness. That single expression said more than any quip could: one more word and I'll throw you into your own damn hydrangeas.

—You want me to go home? she asked, arching a brow, not entirely kidding.

He stepped aside instantly, hands up in mock surrender, his grin widening.

—Never. Come on in. Ava's still wrangling something with citrus and rosemary in the kitchen, and Ana's already on her second glass of red.

Alexis brushed past him with the kind of calm that only came from years of holding the line between control and chaos. She moved like someone used to assessing every room she entered, but tonight, there was a subtle difference. The edge was still there–always would be–but softened beneath something quieter.

As she stepped inside, the scent of her shampoo lingered behind her, light and unpretentious, like flowers and something faintly citrus. Not the kind of fragrance that clung to a woman trying to be noticed, but the kind that stuck in your head anyway. Miles closed the door behind her, the smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth as he turned to follow.

They both knew this dinner was a setup–had been from the start.

Ava had pitched it like it was nothing: just a quiet evening, a good meal, some wine, and her cousin Ana who 'happened to be in town'. But the truth was, the Langford woman had known exactly what she was doing when she put her cousin's name into the mix. And her husband, well–he'd kept his mouth shut and played along, even though he knew how this was going to unfold. Because Alexis Gray, for all her skill with deception and restraint, wasn't exactly subtle these days. Not when it came to certain things. Not when it came to certain people.

From the living room, a low laugh drifted around the corner, followed by the soft clink of a wine glass being set down. The SEAL froze for the briefest second, the way someone might before opening a door they weren't sure they wanted to walk through. Her friend caught it–just a flicker–but didn't say anything. She adjusted the sleeve of her blazer, a pointless motion really, then took a step forward.

Ana was already halfway up from the couch when Alexis entered, wine glass in hand and that easy, practiced smile in place. She looked good, of course she did–Ava's family didn't seem capable of average. Blonde hair swept into a loose ponytail, jeans and a fitted blouse, bare feet curled into the rug. Comfortable. Warm. Familiar in that easy, bright way the commander had once responded to–once given into, if only briefly. If only the kind of brief that happened when two people shared a bottle of wine and a night without expectations. Or a weekend that blurred somewhere between friends and something that couldn't quite hold.

—Hey, stranger.

Ana stepped in, her grin easy and warm, touching the corners of her mouth with practiced charm. There was a glint in her eyes–familiar, teasing, maybe even a little hopeful. Alexis met it with a curve of her own lips, polite and fleeting, the kind of smile that knew its place. It didn't reach her eyes, not really. Not tonight.

—Hey.

For a moment, the air between them felt like an echo. Like something that had once meant more in a moment of loneliness than either of them had ever admitted out loud. There'd been a rhythm to it–a quiet understanding. The pediatrician never pushed. The agent never promised. And that was how they'd survived it: easy, spaced out across visits, never serious. Until now.

Because now, even Ana could see it. The shift. It wasn't just the physical distance–though Alexis didn't lean in like she used to, didn't mirror the easy body language they used to fall into so naturally. It was in her eyes. The way they wandered without purpose toward the kitchen, toward the hallway, toward the thought of someone who wasn't here. Someone who hadn't been invited, but was here anyway, in the silence the agent carried.

The blonde didn't need to ask. She'd seen it before–in patients' parents sitting in waiting rooms, in old friends who'd outgrown their own lives, in people trying not to miss someone they weren't ready to admit they loved. It was the way a person carried themselves when their heart was somewhere else. Not broken, not pining–just... absent. Quietly aching. Present in body, distant in soul.

And Alexis, for all her calm exterior and clean lines, was radiating that kind of stillness. Not cold, not closed off–just turned away from something that used to feel open. Ana saw it before the brunette said a word, and it made something inside her settle with a soft kind of resignation.

She held her gaze for a second longer, her own expression shifting into something amused, a little dry at the edges. Still her, still charming–but with just enough warmth not to sting.

—You clean up nice.

Alexis exhaled through her nose, a sound somewhere between a breath and a scoff. Not quite a laugh, but close enough to pass. She glanced down briefly, adjusted the cuff of her white silk shirt with a practiced flick of her fingers–habitual and unnecessary, something to do with her hands while her mind hovered somewhere else.

—You always say that.

—Because it's always true.

Their smiles lingered, both of them standing in that suspended space where the past brushed up against the present and didn't quite fit anymore. Ana didn't press. She never had. That was the deal, always had been. No pressure. No expectations. Just company when the city felt too quiet and their lives too heavy. But tonight, Alexis wasn't available for the kind of connection they used to share. And the thing was–the blonde could feel it, as clearly as if it were spoken out loud.

From the kitchen, Miles ducked in under the guise of helping his lover finish up. In reality, he needed a second away from the front room, away from the look on Ana's face and the way his partner was quietly dismantling every last hope without saying a damn word. He leaned a hip against the counter, watching Ava move effortlessly between burners, her focus divided only by the tilt of her ear toward him.

—She's not biting, is she? his wife asked, eyes on the sauce she was stirring, but a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Miles grabbed two plates from the shelf and gave a helpless little shrug, letting out a breath that sounded like both amusement and pity.

—Nope. It's like watching a cat politely ignore a toy it used to like.

Ava snorted, shaking her head as she reached for the pepper grinder.

—Ana's going to kill us.

—She'll survive. She's had worse heartbreaks.

—That wasn't a heartbreak, the brunette replied, tossing him a look over her shoulder. Lexi was a situation.

Miles laughed under his breath, but it wasn't a mocking sound. If anything, it was thoughtful. A quiet agreement between people who had watched something unfold from the sidelines without ever being able to steer it.

—She was never meant to stick, he said, his voice low now, carrying a note of something that sounded a lot like understanding. Not with Ana.

Ava turned off the burner, letting the sauce settle as she leaned her weight against the counter. Her eyes, usually quick to flash with wit or teasing sarcasm, softened as she studied her husband. She didn't need to ask what he meant. They both knew. Her cousin was beautiful, accomplished, funny in that dry, unshakable way. But Alexis had never looked at her the way she looked at... well, that was the thing, wasn't it?

She hadn't even realized she'd been looking at anyone until recently. And now that she was, now that Olivia Benson existed in the same airspace, it was like the rest of the world had faded into grayscale.

—She's still pretending it's nothing, Ava murmured, not to herself but not exactly to her husband either, as though putting it out into the air might make it easier to swallow.

She didn't look at him–just kept her gaze trained on the kitchen wall like she could see through it, past the space Alexis and Ana occupied, to the thing neither of them would name.

—Like she's not halfway gone over that woman already. Like we can't all see it.

Miles didn't rush to respond. He moved with a kind of quiet deliberateness, uncorking the bottle of red and pouring a modest inch into his glass, the act more about giving his hands something to do than any real thirst. He swirled the wine slowly, eyes tracking the motion while silence stretched between them–not uncomfortable, but charged. Heavy with all the truths they danced around when their friend was close enough to hear them.

—She's got a talent for it, he said eventually, the words low and rough at the edges. Convincing herself she's in control. That if she doesn't name it, it can't get away from her. Can't ruin anything.

The brunette turned then, arms crossed loosely, her posture casual but her expression anything but. There was too much affection there, too much protectiveness–for both of them–for this to be easy.

—You really think she's not letting herself feel it? Even now?

The agent set the glass down and leaned forward on his elbows, the weight of his body a mirror to the weight behind his voice.

—No. She feels it. God, she feels it. But Lex doesn't do anything unless she knows the terrain, unless she knows how the story ends. And this? He paused, letting the unspoken name hang between them. This one's too close to the chest. Too important.

Ava glanced toward the hallway again, where muffled laughter–Ana's, trying to fill the space–drifted into the kitchen like perfume that didn't quite mask the underlying tension.

—Ana's doing her best. Trying to keep it light. But it's different now. Even she can feel it.

—Of course she can, Miles nodded. It's been different ever since Olivia walked into the picture.

He didn't have to spell it out. They'd both been there, watching from the edges of cases and coffee runs and late-night debriefs. Watching as Alexis stopped teasing the way she used to, stopped letting Ana touch her wrist when she laughed, stopped leaning into the comfort that used to be enough. Watching as she started scanning every doorway like it might open onto someone else. Someone who'd walked in quietly and, without even trying, changed the shape of her world.

—She was looking for her, Ava said, softer now, like she was admitting something she hadn't wanted to notice. I caught her glancing at the door more than once. Like she thought Olivia might show up just because she wanted her to.

—She does that, Miles said with a small, fond smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Doesn't even realize it. We've been running more joint ops with SVU lately, and every time Benson steps into the room, Lex just... stills. It's like the whole room drops out for her.

His wife blinked at him.

—And Olivia? Do you think she knows?

The man gave a slow shrug, not careless, but thoughtful.

—Some of it. Maybe not the full scope. But Olivia's sharp–emotionally, not just in the field. She knows there's something. She feels it. They both do. It's like watching two ghosts orbiting the same haunting. They won't touch unless they're forced to, but God, you can see the pull.

Ava made a sound–half sigh, half exasperated chuckle–and rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand.

—Remind me again why we thought dinner with my cousin and your emotionally stunted partner was a good idea?

Miles laughed, a low, genuine sound that broke the weight of the conversation for just a second. He took the salad bowl from her hands, bumping her hip lightly with his own.

—Because we're suckers for lost causes.

—You're the sucker, the brunette said, though her smile softened the edge of it. I'm just a good host.

He gave her a look, equal parts teasing and conspiratorial.

—You're the one who said love stories bored you.

—They do. At least the ones that get wrapped up in an hour and a half.

Miles arched a brow.

—So this one?

She tilted her head toward the living room and said, simply, "This one's messy. Which means it might actually be real."

He didn't disagree. Just gave her hand a squeeze as they turned toward the open living room together, the scent of rosemary and roasted citrus trailing after them like a promise.

—Let's just hope they don't waste too much time figuring it out.

The dining room carried the low murmur of clicking silverware and the occasional soft scrape of cutlery against ceramic, candlelight dancing along the rim of half-filled wine glasses. The space, bathed in warm hues and softened by mismatched linens and the scent of citrus and rosemary still lingering in the air, had the unmistakable feel of a home shaped over years–intentional but never forced. Ava's signature dish had done its job; everyone had eaten well, and even Alexis had gone back for seconds, though she'd done so with a quiet sort of detachment that didn't escape notice.

The Langford wife sat across from her husband, her posture relaxed but her eyes alert, tuned to the rhythm of the table with practiced ease. She was facing Miles, which meant she could catch every shift in his expression–the slight downturn of his mouth, the glance he sent her when his partner's phone buzzed again, and the way his fingers tapped once against his thigh in a way only she could register. They'd been married long enough to hold whole conversations without speaking, and tonight, those conversations were starting to feel like a quiet series of sighs.

Miles sat beside Alexis, angled slightly in his chair, not to box her in, but to keep her within his peripheral awareness. He hadn't said much either, letting the space fill itself. Still, every so often, he'd look up and meet his lover's gaze across the table–tiny exchanges of raised eyebrows, half-smirks, silent acknowledgments of what wasn't being said. Ava could read every one of them: She's closed off tonight... Yeah, I know... Ana's trying... I know that too.

The SEAL, for her part, had spent most of the meal in a kind of functional silence. She answered questions when asked–brief, polite, never curt–but didn't offer much else. Her phone sat face down near her plate, a dark slab of distraction that buzzed every few minutes, tugging at the edges of her attention even as she ignored it. Or pretended to. Her shoulders would shift slightly with each vibration, her eyes flicker down just briefly, as if reminding herself not to care too much.

Across from her, Ana had been doing her best. She'd asked about the meal, complimented the chicken, even shared a few anecdotes from the hospital, delivered with enough humor to draw a chuckle or two from the couple. But the more she tried, the more obvious it became: Alexis wasn't fully here. Not really. Not in the way the PED remembered from before, when there was an easy banter between them, a current of potential neither of them had quite dared to name.

—So, Ava said, cutting gently into the quiet with the practiced warmth of someone redirecting a conversation without making it obvious. I heard you were in the middle of a new study?

Her cousin looked up from her plate, grateful for the prompt.

—Yeah, actually. It's part of a longitudinal case review–complex pediatric trauma cases across urban hospitals. I'm heading it with a colleague in South Philly. Kids who've been through sustained or repeated medical interventions—trying to track how that impacts both physical outcomes and long-term emotional development.

Ava nodded slowly, her chin resting thoughtfully in her hand, eyes fixed on Ana with the attentive warmth she was known for. There was genuine interest in her voice when she finally spoke again, though it carried a softness too–a recognition of weight.

—That sounds both incredibly important... and a little heartbreaking.

The blonde offered a small shrug in response, the kind that didn't dismiss the sentiment but folded it into her own.

—It is, she said, her voice steady but touched by something quieter beneath. But it's the kind of hard that matters. We're studying patterns–looking at long-term effects in kids who've gone through repeated or intense medical interventions. Things like surgeries, chemotherapy, extended ICU stays... We're trying to figure out what actually helps them down the line, and what ends up layering more trauma on top of what they're already carrying.

Her gaze shifted then, almost unconsciously, toward Alexis.

—Sometimes, she added, her voice dripping just lightly. It's just about listening long enough to figure out what they're not saying.

At that, Alexis didn't speak. Her jaw moved, almost imperceptibly, in a small reflexive clench, like a muscle responding before the mind could stop it. She reached for her water without looking up, took a sip, and kept her eyes low, focused somewhere in the middle of the table. The light flickered along the rim of her glass, catching a brief reflection as her shoulders subtly readjusted. It wasn't defensive–not quite–but there was something in the way she resettled that made it clear the words had landed somewhere close to home.

From beside her, Miles turned in his chair just enough to take in the moment more fully, resting his elbow along the back in that easy, half-casual way that came naturally after years of reading a room. He didn't press, just offered a gentle, knowing voice into the space Ana had opened.

—That kind of listening takes patience most people don't have. Sounds like you're in the right job.

The PED smiled, just faintly, the kind of grateful look that wasn't about modesty, but about someone who recognized the rarity of being seen for what they were trying to do.

—Thanks. I try.

There was a pause then–neither awkward nor overly pointed. Just a space between breaths, the kind that existed at certain dinner tables, when the right kind of conversation had started and no one wanted to disrupt its rhythm too soon. Then Ana shifted again, her tone lightening as she leaned forward just slightly, steering the energy gently in a new direction.

—Actually, she said, her voice easing into the rhythm of the conversation like a stone gently skipping across still water. She shifted slightly in her chair, facing Alexis more directly now, the light catching in her eyes. I meant to ask... I saw the race notice the other day–the New York leg for that PTSD fundraiser? You're running it, right?

Alexis blinked, her attention pulled back into the room with an almost imperceptible recalibration. Not startled, exactly, but the kind of surprised that flickered behind the eyes when someone touches on a part of your world you weren't expecting to share tonight. She looked up, gaze meeting Ana's for the first time in several long minutes. Her posture straightened just a hair as she answered.

—Yeah, she said quietly. They're expanding the circuit this year. Usually it's just D.C.--sometimes Chicago if they can fund the logistics. But they added a New York route for the twenty-year mark.

The blonde's expression brightened with genuine interest.

—That's amazing. How many of these have you done?

The agent took a breath, the edge of her thumb tracing the rim of her water glass.

—This'll be my fourth. Three official entries. Then, after a small pause, almost as an afterthought: One under someone else's bib.

That earned a low chuckle from Ava, who set down her fork with a small shake of her head.

—Of course it was. Let me guess–you took someone's spot last minute and ran the full thing anyway?

Alexis gave the faintest shrug, a flicker of dry amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth.

—They were injured. Figured someone should run it.

Miles leaned back slightly in his chair, enough that his shoulder just barely brushed hers–intentional, but easy.

—And you still finished in the top ten, he added, his voice tinged with that familiar mix of pride and disbelief that only comes from knowing someone too well.

Alexis didn't confirm or deny it. She didn't have to. Her silence was its own kind of acknowledgment, the way her eyes briefly dropped to her plate and her fingers tapped once–twice–against the edge of the table before stilling again. Her phone remained face-down but buzzed softly once more, a muted nudge she ignored with practiced discipline.

Ana, undeterred, leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting loosely near her plate, her voice quieter now but still gently curious.

—Do you train on your own, or with one of the veteran running groups?

—Usually solo, the brunette said, her words clipped but not unfriendly. Sometimes I join a meetup. Depends the day.

There was a pause then–long enough to register, but not uncomfortable. The kind of breath everyone takes when a conversation has edged closer to something real, and no one wants to be the first to pull away. Alexis finished the last of her water and settled back, her hands folding loosely in her lap.

—I'll be in town that weekend, the PED offered, her tone lighter, but not flippant. If you want someone cheering from the sidelines. I make a mean sign. Glitter optional.

Alexis looked up again. This time, the surprise that flickered across her face lingered–less fleeting, less automatic. It was tinged with something quieter, something uncertain that hovered in the space between reflex and intent. Her gaze met the woman's across the table, steady and a little too long to feel casual. But whatever she might have said, whatever thought was building behind her eyes, it never made it out.

Her phone buzzed again–not the soft, persistent whisper of a message, but the sharper trill of a call. A single vibration followed by a second, just loud enough to cut through the low murmur of the room.

Everyone's cutlery paused, just briefly.

The agent dropped her eyes to the screen. A flicker of recognition passed over her face–small, private, but unmistakable. Olivia. No last name needed.

There was no hesitation. Her chair scraped gently against the floor as she stood, already reaching for the phone.

—Sorry, she said quietly, her tone even and apologetic but firm. I've got to take this.

She didn't explain. She didn't have to–not with Miles, and not with Ava. There was a quiet understanding in the way her partner leaned back slightly to give her space, in the way his wife watched her with a flicker of something unreadable beneath her composed expression.

Alexis moved through the dining room with the kind of calm that drew no attention–unhurried but intentional, her boots making barely a sound on the old hardwood. She didn't glance back. Didn't need to. The air shifted behind her, the warmth of the house giving way to the hush of early evening as she opened the front door and stepped into the cool embrace of night.

Outside, the porch welcomed her like an exhale–quiet, familiar, almost soothing. The scent of damp wood and honeysuckle hung in the air, carried on a breeze that rustled through the trees lining the street. A porch light buzzed gently above, casting her in a pool of soft amber that barely reached the steps.

She sat down slowly, elbows resting on her knees, phone already at her ear before her body had fully settled. Her voice, when she spoke, came low and dry–a small, wry edge to it that didn't quite mask the fatigue underneath.

—Hey, she said, her voice warmer now, looser around the edges–carrying a quiet relief she didn't bother to mask. There was a trace of something conspiratorial in her tone, the kind of softness reserved for late hours and people who made the world feel less heavy. Please tell me you've got a case for me.

For a moment, there was only the low hum of the line, a silence that wasn't silence at all. Then Olivia's voice came through—dry and smooth, laced with just enough fatigue to betray how long she'd been at it. It was unmistakably her, carved with that same restraint and gravity that the commander could read like second nature now.

—Officially? No. A brief pause followed, then the faint shuffle of movement–the SVU lieutenant shifting in her seat, likely trying to ease a cramp or refocus her gaze on the dark stretch of road ahead. Unofficially, I'm freezing my ass off in a borrowed sedan waiting for a guy who's late delivering a trafficked girl he never should've had in the first place.

At that, Alexis' posture straightened instinctively. Even on the porch, even out of uniform, her body reacted to the shift in her friend's tone the way it always did when something felt off. She didn't say anything right away, just sat a little taller, the air suddenly tighter across her ribs.

—You alone?

—Mhm, Olivia hummed, then clarified. Carisi and Amanda are down the block, one car each. We've got both exits covered. But it's been almost forty minutes, and all I've got is a lukewarm coffee, an empty street, and a bad feeling I can't shake.

The brunette didn't answer right away. Her eyes had gone sharp without meaning to, scanning the quiet neighborhood around her even though she wasn't there. She could picture it too clearly–Olivia alone in a car, jaw set, one hand on the wheel, eyes locked on a building that had remained stubbornly silent. She could hear the hum of the streetlight outside the window, the kind of urban quiet that didn't ever feel truly still. And for a second, Alexis wanted to be there, not out of impulse but instinct–the drive to cover someone else's blind spot, to put herself between danger and someone she cared about.

She was already doing the mental math, calculating how long it would take to make an excuse, grab her blazer, and disappear without causing a stir. But before the thought could finish forming, Olivia's voice returned, a touch softer now, and firmer in a way the younger woman recognized. The kind of tone you used when you saw something before it happened and stopped it gently, but clearly.

—Don't even say it. Stay where you are. You've got plans tonight.

Alexis let out a breath through her nose, quiet but not quite a sigh. The weight of Olivia's words settled over her like a hand on the shoulder–steadying, but not heavy. She didn't argue, didn't insist. She just paused, phone pressed to her ear, fingers absently curling over the edge of her knee as she watched the porch light stretch across the lawn in long, golden strips. For a moment, it was like neither of them were in the places they physically sat, like the conversation had created a pocket of space between their realities–hers lit by soft spring evening, Olivia's carved out of urban shadows and headlights.

—I wouldn't call this plans exactly, the brunette murmured after a beat, her voice edged with a dry humor, but it carried something softer underneath—something almost shy. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees as she stared out into the dim stretch of yard beyond the porch lights, the phone warm against her ear. It's dinner. Kind of a setup.

There was the faint sound of a shift on the other end, Olivia settling more comfortably in her seat–though likely not any warmer. A small chuckle followed, brief but genuine.

—A setup, she repeated, teasing just enough to let it land gently. Who's the brave soul?

—Ava's cousin, Alexis said, her hand running through her hair as if smoothing it could make the situation sound less absurd. Ana. Pediatric trauma doc. Loves running. Loves kids. She's funny. Miles likes her. Ava's ready to plan the wedding.

That made the lieutenant laugh, a sound Gray hadn't realized she'd been waiting for until she heard it. It was quiet but rich, and it folded neatly between them through the line. Lexi closed her eyes for a second, letting it settle.

—Oh yeah? Sounds like they're rooting hard for this one.

—They are, the agent replied, her voice lowering a bit, the weight of the moment catching up with her. I think they mean well. They just... want me to be with someone normal. Settled. Who doesn't disappear off-grid or get called into scenes where people bleed.

There was a pause. Olivia didn't rush in with a response. She never did, and Alexis appreciated that about her–how she let silences breathe without mistaking them for something broken. On her end, the oldest glanced out the windshield at the empty street, headlights in the far distance shifting but not stopping. Still no sign of their guy.

—She sounds like a good person, she said finally, voice level but softer now, like she was stepping carefully over something fragile.

—She is. We've... had a night or two. It was friendly. Easy. Nothing serious.

The lieutenant absorbed that in silence. Her friend waited, a strange flutter moving through her chest–because despite the casual words, there was something underneath them, something she wasn't quite ready to name.

Then Olivia spoke, the tease returning, but with a different tone–lighter on the surface, yes, but threaded with something quieter, more searching.

—You've just told me she's a pediatrician, loves sports, and makes people laugh. So why aren't you giving her a chance?

Alexis hesitated, caught—not in a lie, but in something much harder to explain. She glanced back toward the door, then out into the dark again, her voice almost a whisper when she replied.

—Because I didn't wait for her to call tonight.

Alexis lingered on the porch steps longer than she'd intended. Even after the call had ended and Olivia's voice had dissolved into the quiet, she stayed where she was, knees drawn in, arms loosely circled around herself. Her hands moved idly, rubbing over the barely covered skin of her arms as if coaxing back warmth, though the chill in the May evening was mild–more of a whisper than a sting. Still, it settled in the spaces between her breath, threaded through the silence like something she didn't quite want to shake off.

The air had that soft, damp edge of early summer settling in—earthy and cool, touched by the scent of distant lilacs and fresh-cut grass. The porch lights glowed faintly behind her, casting long, slanted shadows across the steps. Out here, away from the hum of conversation and clinking glasses, it was easy to pretend the world had narrowed to nothing but stillness and night. She wasn't hiding, not exactly. Just letting the quiet fill her up where the noise had worn her thin.

She didn't hear the front door open, or the soft click as it eased shut again. Didn't register the gentle pad of footsteps across the porch floorboards until a shift in presence drew her from her thoughts—light and familiar. Ana sat down beside her without a word, her movements unhurried, her arrival so unobtrusive it felt like she'd always been there, waiting just outside the edge of the brunette's awareness.

Only then did Alexis turn slightly, realizing she wasn't alone.

Her eyes flicked toward the pediatrician, but the other woman wasn't looking at her–just gazing out at the quiet street ahead, hands tucked into the sleeves of her cardigan. There was no trace of accusation in her presence, no hint of expectation or wounded pride. Just calm awareness, like she knew something without needing it explained.

They sat like that for a moment–shoulders nearly brushing, breath rising and falling in tandem, the quiet between them a strange kind of comfort. It wasn't tense or strained; if anything, it felt inevitable, as though the night had led them here on purpose. The air wrapped around them in hushed tones, and Alexis let out a slow exhale. It wasn't quite a sigh, more like a breath that had been waiting too long to be released.

—I didn't hear you come out.

Ana didn't look over, but the edge of her mouth curved, just slightly.

—I figured, she said softly. Didn't want to startle you.

The agent gave a faint nod, eyes drifting ahead again toward the street, which was dark and quiet under the suburban hush. She folded her arms a little tighter for a beat before letting them drop, her palms pressing flat against the wooden step beside her thighs, grounding herself there. She hadn't meant to be out here this long. Hadn't meant to disappear from the dinner table or from whatever well-meaning narrative Miles and Ava were trying to write. But that didn't make her absence easier to explain.

—I didn't mean to stay out here this long, she added, like that might make the whole thing less complicated.

—I know. said, and her voice carried that particular kind of kindness that didn't waver. It didn't flinch. It just existed, steady and undemanding.

The silence that followed wasn't filled, not right away. It stretched between them, but it didn't press. The porch creaked gently beneath their weight, the occasional rustle of leaves overhead threading into the quiet. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and was gone. When Ana finally spoke again, her voice was softer, as if it had taken its time to reach the place it needed to.

—You don't have to say it. I get it, Lex. I've seen that look on someone's face before.

Alexis turned toward her slowly, her brows drawing together just slightly.

—What look?

The doctor's smile came faintly again, a flicker of something wistful that didn't quite reach her eyes.

—The one you had when your phone rang. The way your whole body shifted—like someone flipped a switch you didn't even know was there.

Gray didn't answer at first. Her jaw tightened for a moment, then eased. She tapped her fingers against the step once, twice, the small repetitive rhythm grounding her before her hands finally stilled. When she did speak, the words were quiet and uneven, betraying more than she wanted them to.

—It's not like that, though even to her own ears, it didn't sound convincing. I mean... it wasn't supposed to be.

Ana finally turned her gaze on her, something unguarded and knowing in her expression.

—But it is.

The commander looked down, her fingers curling against her palms. Her throat worked around the words she didn't quite know how to shape. She wasn't even sure what it was–this thing, this pull, this quiet certainty that had crept in like a tide she'd never intended to wade into. It wasn't like anything she'd felt before. There was no chaos in it. No adrenaline. Just presence. Warmth. Gravity.

—I don't even think she knows, she admitted after a long pause, her voice barely above a whisper. I don't think I meant for it to happen. She's... my friend. And it's not even–there's nothing between us. I just...She paused, brow furrowing as she struggled to find the words. I think about her. A lot. And when she calls, it's like...

The blonde didn't hesitate. She finished the thought with quiet certainty.

—Like the noise goes quiet.

Alexis turned her head, eyes meeting Ana's for the first time since she sat down. She didn't need to say it. She just nodded once, the movement small and almost imperceptible.

—Yeah, she said, her voice barely audible. Exactly that.

The woman didn't respond right away. She was just there, letting the truth settle between them like something sacred–unspoken, but deeply understood. There was no judgment in her silence, no bitterness in the space between their shoulders. Only something calm, a kind of acceptance that felt both earned and generous. After a few moments, she leaned in, just slightly, and let her shoulder brush against her friend's in a gesture so small it might've gone unnoticed–if not for the grounding weight of it. It said: I'm still here. I still care.

—You don't owe me an apology, she said eventually, her voice low and steady, like she was trying not to make too much of it.

But Alexis shook her head, jaw tight with something unresolved.

—I do. I'm sorry, Ana. I didn't mean to hurt you. I swear, I didn't.

The pediatrician's smile returned then, warmer than before–still tinged with something wistful, maybe, but not sharp. Not bitter. She looked ahead as she spoke, her gaze soft on the quiet street.

—You didn't. Not really, she said, and there was nothing performative in it—just honesty, bare and uncomplicated. We had our fun, remember? It was good. Easy. But you were never mine to lose.

The brunette turned her head to look at her fully, some mix of relief and regret passing through her expression. She didn't know what to say in return, how to express gratitude and guilt in equal measure, but Ana seemed to understand anyway. She nudged her shoulder again with familiar affection, then reached out, her hand sliding around Alexis's bicep with a firm, steady squeeze. It wasn't possessive–it was grounding, anchoring. Then, slowly, she let her head tip sideways until it rested against her friend's shoulder, her blonde hair brushing the fabric of the SEAL's shirt.

—You'll always be my Lex, she said softly, the words so quiet they almost disappeared into the night air. But Alexis heard them. Felt them. And they landed in her chest with a weight that was both tender and aching.

Without speaking, the commander turned her head just enough to press a kiss to Ana's forehead–a gesture not of romance, but of thanks. Of loyalty. Of love, in the complicated, layered way love sometimes lingers between people who were never quite meant to last. It wasn't passionate, but it was deep. The kind of kiss that said, you knew me when I didn't know myself, and you still stayed.

They remained there like that, shoulder to shoulder, two people who had shared something real even if it wasn't permanent. The porch lights above them slowly dimmed on their timer, casting the steps in a softer, duskier glow. And still, they didn't move. The night had folded itself gently around them, and neither one seemed ready to break the quiet just yet.

TAGLIST: @certainlychaotic @ginasbaby @nciscmjunkie @thefatobsession @makkaroni221 @hi-i-1 @kiwiana145 @kobayashi-fr @alexis042499

#lala’s fic recs *ೃ༄#𓏲 ₊˚๑( jul ‘25 fic recs )໑‧₊˚.ꪆ #olivia benson fic recs

24 notes · View notes

enretrogue · 1 month ago

Text

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 19 • Burning Out — Part II

TAGLIST FORM

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary: Alexis is sick. Olivia stays with her.

Content Warning: Usual SVU & Violent Crime talk • mention of the ongoing case (human trafficking, victims under 18) — Alexis being sick

MONDAY, MARCH 20

Manhattan — Alexis' Apartment

03:12 PM

Olivia knew she should've gone back to work.

Her unit was knee-deep in the early stages of a trafficking case–one of those sprawling, insidious networks where the monsters wore familiar faces and the victims slipped through the cracks like smoke. Most were girls from Eastern Europe, barely more than teenagers, their names surfacing in fragments across reports: a missing persons file here, a whispered alias there. They'd started to piece it together weeks ago–a pattern hidden in plain sight. Arrests that didn't line up, timelines that bent under pressure, survivors too terrified to speak.

Now, the picture was beginning to take shape–dark, jagged, and far from complete. More names had surfaced in the last forty-eight hours, young women pulled from online reports, immigration detentions, and missing persons databases, all with the same vacant fear behind their eyes. Some had faces. Others were still just initials on a board, names without stories, bodies not yet found. And the men behind it–the ones pulling strings and buying silence–remained ghosts. No arrests. No confirmation. Just shadows and broken trails.

But Olivia wasn't at her desk.

She wasn't chasing down leads or pinning fresh photos to the corkboard in the squadroom.

She was here.

In the still, dim hush of Alexis' apartment, leash slack in her hand as Champ–the agent's six-year-old Belgian Malinois–padded ahead through the door. The dog moved with quiet purpose, his path familiar, his ears flicking as he trotted toward the bedroom, tail swaying low and easy. He didn't need direction. This was his domain, even more than it was hers.

The apartment itself surprised Olivia every time she stepped inside.

It wasn't sterile–not exactly–but it carried the weight of someone who never fully unpacked. The kind of place that held function above comfort, that whispered of temporary stays and half-formed roots. A clean pair of boots by the door. A single jacket on the wall hook. One coffee mug in the drying rack, and another on the windowsill, still faintly stained with the remains of whatever had been in it that morning.

The living room was sparsely furnished–one worn leather couch, a low, functionable table, and an aging bookshelf with more gaps than volume. A baseball under glass sat alone on the top shelf, catching a shaft of weak afternoon light. Beside it, a photo frame faced slightly toward the wall, its contents not immediately visible. There were no plants. No candles. No trace of domesticity for its own sake.

In the far corner, Olivia's gaze settled on a military-issued duffel bag–the kind that had seen years of deployment. Its canvas sides were still creased from recent travel, half-zipped and slumped against the wall like it was waiting for its next call to duty. Not unpacked, not forgotten. Just...paused.

The whole place echoed that same sense of suspension. It was clean, carefully arranged, and unmistakingly temporary in feeling. There were personal touches—a framed photo of a unit, that worn baseball under glass, a few books stacked on a side table–but nothing indulgent, nothing that said permanence. It felt like a place someone lived in out of necessity, not choice. Like a rest stop, not a home.

It felt, Olivia thought, like Alexis.

Purposeful. Controlled. Pulled together just enough to function, but never quite enough to belong. The apartment had a quiet precision about it–a lived-in sense of discipline, not comfort. And that, Benson realized, was the woman she'd come to know in the liminal spaces between chaos. Agent Gray, who had slipped into her world with steel-edged focus, bone-deep loyalty, and a wit that came dry as dust and twice as sharp.

The lieutenant hadn't expected to admire her so quickly. She hadn't expected to care this much.

But she did. And now Alexis was in bed, feverish, worn out, and–as ever–gritting her teeth through the very idea of being looked after.

The leash was still in Olivia's hand, forgotten in the doorway. She could've left it on the hook in the hall, but she hadn't. Her fingers tightened around it, the nylon digging faintly into her palm as she stood motionless in the stillness of the place. Champ's nails had already clicked out of earshot, the dog weaving through the narrow hallway with that uncanny sense of purpose only service-training animals seemed to have. He didn't need any instructions. He knew exactly where he was needed.

So did Olivia.

She moved quietly, her steps muffled by the faded runner rug, her hand brushing the wall as she turned the corner. The hallway was dim, the air inside the apartment noticeably warmer than it had been earlier, thick with stillness and the faint scent of eucalyptus from the diffuser the agent had probably forgotten she owned.

The bedroom door was cracked open. Through it, the oldest could already see the silhouette of the dog, curled into his usual post at the foot of the bed–watchful but at ease, his presence both sentinel and comfort.

She nudged the door open with a whisper of movement, slipping into the room.

The curtains were drawn against the afternoon light, letting only a soft, gray glow filter in. The air was hushed, the kind of stillness that came with fevered sleep and drawn-out exhaustion. Alexis was curled on her side, her back to the doorway, tangled in the bedsheets that she hadn't quite managed to wrestle into order. The blanket rode low on one hip, her shoulder exposed, skin damp with sweat. Her breathing was shallow, her face flushed and still.

She looked–Olivia hated the word, but there was no escaping it–fragile.

The sharp, composed edges that usually defined the young commander were absent now. The quiet power in her bearing, the controlled energy she carried like armor–it had all given way to something softer, more uncertain. Olivia had seen her bleeding before. She'd seen her fight through pain, push past fear. But this... this was something else. A surrender, not to weakness, but to the sheer weight of being worn down.

The brunette eased herself down beside the bed, one knee pressing softly to the floor, mindful not to jostle the mattress. Her eyes lingered on the woman before her, drawn to the subtle flicker of her lashes, the small furrow in her brow, even in rest–like Alexis was still fighting something invisible in the dark.

She reached out with care, brushing a loose strand of hair from the younger woman's damp forehead. Her fingertips barely grazed the flushed skin, but the heat radiating off her was unmistakable. Too high. Still rising. Still burning up.

Beneath the blankets, Alexis stirred–a faint shift, her shoulder twitching as her breath caught. Olivia stilled.

A few seconds passed in silence.

Then Gray's eyelids fluttered, struggling against the weight of fever and fatigue. Her gaze wandered, unfocused, until it finally landed on her friend.

She blinked. Once. Twice. As if unsure whether what she saw was real.

—Hey, Olivia said softly, her voice low and warm, barely above a whisper. It's just me.

The agent let out a faint exhale. Not quite a sigh. Not quite relief. Her eyes shut again, then cracked open.

—You stayed? she murmured, the words dry and gravel-thin.

—I did.

—You should've gone back.

—I know.

The quiet between them stretched, thick and lingering. Alexis shifted again, a faint wince tugging at the corners of her mouth as she tried to lift herself and failed. Her throat worked as she swallowed hard, voice raw.

—You don't have to babysit me, Benson.

—I'm not, Olivia replied, reaching for the cloth again and dabbing gently at Lexi's temple. I'm just... not leaving.

A stillness settled over them–not tense, not uncomfortable, but heavy in the way that silence can feel when two people understand something unspoken. Benson stayed close, her fingers stilling on the damp edge of the cloth. She watched the young SEAL, saw the fight in her start to fold, piece by piece. It wasn't just the fever. It was something quieter–bone-deep exhaustion, and that particular brand of discomfort that came from being seen too clearly. Olivia understood that kind of tired. She'd worn it herself more than once.

Her voice dropped even softer.

—You upset?

A shiver ran through Alexis. Her jaw twitched as she tried to respond, but nothing came at first. Olivia wondered if she'd slipped back into sleep. Then, slowly, the woman's eyes cracked open, unfocused and glassy as they drifted somewhere just past the lieutenant's shoulder.

—I'm tired, she muttered, barely audible. The words dragged behind the fever, slow and slurred.

Olivia's brow knit with concern. She leaned in, pressing the back of her hand gently to the woman's forehead. The heat that met her skin made her heart kick up. Too warm. Alexis flinched slightly beneath the touch, the cool contrast too much. Her features twisted briefly before her expression flattened again, all effort spent.

—You're burning up, the oldest said, worry threading more plainly through her tone. She shifted her weight, fingers moving to the edge of the quilt. You need to cool off a bit.

She began to tug the blanket back, just enough to help. But Alexis' hand jerked up from beneath it, latching on fast.

—No–

Her voice cracked on the word, rough and breathless. Her grip was shaky, not strong, but the panic behind it made Benson still instantly.

—I'm not... the commander tried again, blinking hard, as if that might help her gather the words. I'm in... underwear.

The words landed with a flicker of something fragile–embarrassment, hesitation, maybe even shame. Olivia's hand froze on instinct, the blanket still bunched gently between her fingers. The stubbornness in Alexis' voice wasn't the kind she usually heard from her in the field–this wasn't defiance rooted in pride or authority. This was something rawer. Something closer to self-preservation.

—I see, she murmured softly, letting go of the quilt at once. She didn't step back. She didn't make a joke to defuse the moment or try to convince her otherwise. She simply stayed where she was, kneeling beside the bed, her voice steady and calm in the thick, fever-warmed air. Then the blanket stays. It's okay.

The brunette's hand lingered where it had caught the edge, her fingers still curled, though the tension in her grip was fading fast. Her eyelids drooped again. Whatever adrenaline had flared moments before was already burning out, leaving her visibly weaker, her breaths shallow and uneven beneath the heat.

—I just... need some rest.

Olivia gave a quiet nod, even though the SEAL's eyes were already drifting shut again. She wrung out the cloth once more, placed it gently along the side of her neck, and stayed there a moment longer, watching the younger woman settle beneath the covers, her breathing uneven but easing.

—I'll let you sleep, Benson said softly, rising to her feet with practiced care, like any sudden movement might undo the fragile calm they'd managed to carve out. She smoothed the edge of the blanket Alexis had clutched moments ago, then took a slow step back. You need the rest.

She turned halfway, meaning to cross back toward the door, give the agent some quiet, let the weight of sleep do what medicine hadn't yet.

But then—

—Wait.

It was quiet. Barely a whisper.

Olivia froze. Turned. Alexis' hand hadn't moved from where it rested on the blanket, but her eyes were open again–just barely–and fixed on the woman's silhouette through the dim light.

—You can... stay, she said, her voice rough, barely formed, like she was fighting to get the words through cotton and heat. Just–just sit or something. You don't have to talk. Or...

She trailed off, blinking slowly. Her brow furrowed as if she were already regretting asking, the apology forming before she could even finish the thought.

—I know you've got that case, Alexis mumbled, voice rasping now. The girls. The ring. You probably have a thousand things to do and I'm— She exhaled roughly, frustrated with herself, her expression creasing. I'm just lying here like some half-dead stubborn idiot and you should be out there doing something that actually matters, but I—

—Lex.

The nickname slipped from Olivia's lips–soft, but unwavering. She'd stepped closer without thinking, one hand braced against the footboard, the other relaxed at her side. Her voice was low, even, but beneath it ran something unmistakable: quiet resolve, like steel hidden beneath velvet.

—You matter, she said plainly.

Alexis blinked, slow and dazed, but the words reached her. The lieutenant saw it in the subtle way her jaw unclenched, in the faint flicker of awareness behind her fevered gaze.

—And I'm exactly where I want to be.

The silence that followed wasn't heavy this time–it carried warmth, a quiet pulse of understanding that seemed to settle over both of them. Alexis' expression shifted, the lines of pain and resistance softening by degrees. Not erased. But eased.

Her head tilted ever so slightly in a nod, lashes falling back to her cheeks as she surrendered again to sleep.

Olivia lingered beside the bed for another moment, watching the rise and fall of the younger woman's breath until it found a steady rhythm. Then, with practiced care, she moved around the edge of the bed and lowered herself onto the mattress beside her–slowly, gently–keeping a respectful distance, but close enough that Alexis wouldn't feel alone.

She didn't touch her. Didn't need to. Her presence was quiet but unmistakable.

Champ shifted only slightly at the foot of the bed, lifting his head just long enough to glance back and confirm everything was still as it should be. Satisfied, he laid it back down, his sigh soft and steady as he resumed his vigil.

And there, in the hush of the room, Olivia sat. The world outside–its cases, its chaos–faded into the background.

She didn't reach for her phone. She didn't think about the case files waiting on her desk.

She just stayed. Still.

Close enough to protect, but far enough to let Alexis rest.

Time moved gently, muffled by the soft rise and fall of Champ's breathing and the distant groans of old pipes shifting somewhere behind the walls. Olivia stayed still, her back resting against the headboard, one knee bent beneath her and the other stretched along the edge of the bed. Her gaze wandered–sometimes to the window, where the afternoon light had dulled to a muted gray, sometimes to the woman lying beside her.

Alexis looked asleep. Her body was heavy under the quilt, her face slack with exhaustion. But the lieutenant had been watching long enough to know better. Every now and then, a flicker passed through her brow, a small shift in her jaw–as if her mind hovered just beneath the surface, caught somewhere between waking and rest, unable or unwilling to fully let go.

Several more minutes slipped by before Olivia moved. She leaned slightly, reaching across the narrow space to adjust the compress resting against her friend's forehead. Her fingers were careful, practiced–gentle in the way one learns only after enough years tending to others who won't ask for help.

The touch stirred Alexis. Her lashes trembled, then lifted just enough to reveal a sliver of glassy eyes. Her voice emerged like a breath caught on smoke, thin and hoarse.

—I'm not asleep.

Olivia glanced down, the faintest curve lifting one corner of her mouth. She didn't seem surprised–only patient.

—I thought maybe not.

The youngest brunette didn't answer right away. Her eyes wandered again, past her friend's shoulder toward some point on the far wall, distant and unfocused. Then, after a moment, she blinked–slow and heavy–and her lips parted, as though whatever she was holding back had worn thin.

—Thank you... for taking care of my boy. Of me.

The admission hung between them like a thread tugged loose. Olivia didn't speak right away. Her hand remained where it was, resting near Alexis' temple, her thumb brushing lightly against the curve of her brow in something that was more comfort than habit.

—You don't have to thank me, she said after a moment, voice low. I wanted to.

The agent's eyes drifted shut again—not asleep, not fully, but hovering in that hazy place just above it. Her breathing had leveled out, steadier now, though the occasional flicker of tension still ran through her shoulders, a subtle twitch here and there. Olivia didn't speak. She simply watched her, quiet and still, as if afraid that any sudden movement might jolt her out of whatever fragile calm she'd found.

Then, barely louder than the sound of breath between them, Alexis spoke.

—When I was a kid... my mother used to send me to school even when I was sick.

Her voice was hoarse, dulled at the edges, as though the words had taken too long to surface and were worn down by the time they reached her lips. Olivia turned slightly, her head tilting just enough to catch her gaze, even if Alexis kept her eyes closed.

—She'd say I was being dramatic. Making it up, the brunette went on, her brow twitching faintly beneath the fever sheen. Didn't matter if I had a fever or could barely keep my eyes open. I'd get dressed, drag myself to school, sit through the day like a ghost.

The oldest woman didn't say anything. She didn't need to. She just shifted slightly, lowering her hand until it rested gently on the blanket near Alexis' arm–close, warm, but not invasive. Her presence, quiet and steady, filled the space that words couldn't.

—But Tommy..., she whispered, voice nearly swallowed by the dark. If he got a bruise? A bump? He'd stay home. My mom would set him up on the couch with a blanket and cartoons. Make soup from scratch. Sit with him, dote on him, tell him how brave he was for being in pain.

Her throat worked around something dry, brittle.

—He was hurting, so he got to stay. I was hurting... so I was a burden.

The quiet that followed didn't press like silence usually did–it hovered, tender and understanding. It wrapped around them like something living, like the apartment itself was listening. Olivia didn't move her hand. She just let it stay–something solid in the soft dark, in all the space Alexis had never been given as a child.

The commander's jaw twitched, just once, then stilled again.

—Sometimes I'd fake feeling better, she went on, her voice thinner now, fraying at the edges. Just so she wouldn't roll her eyes when I walked into the kitchen. Just so I didn't have to hear her tell my dad I was faking again while he was deployed. While he couldn't see.

A beat passed. Then Alexis' brow furrowed, barely, and her lips parted again, the words shaky and small.

—She used to say I was too sensitive. That I made things worse for everyone.

Olivia's chest tightened. But when she spoke, her voice was calm, low, unwavering.

—She was wrong.

Gray didn't open her eyes. Her face didn't shift. But her next breath caught slightly, like something unsteady had loosened in her ribs.

—I think..., she started, then paused. The words clung to her throat. I think I used to try to earn it. Her kindness. Like maybe if I was strong enough... quiet enough... she'd stop seeing me as a problem.

The hand near hers moved. Olivia let her fingers settle lightly on top of Alexis' forearm, just a brush of contact—steady, respectful, grounding.

—You didn't have to earn that, the lieutenant said, the steadiness in her voice quiet but sure. Not then. Not now.

Another moment passed. The air between them held still, wrapped in something heavier than silence and warmer than pity. The oldest watched as the muscles in Lexi's face softened, just slightly–like some piece of her was loosening for the first time in a long time.

Then, quietly–almost like the words slipped out on their own–the agent drew in a shallow breath and murmured, "Sorry."

Olivia angled her head, gentle curiosity in her eyes.

—For what?

—For rambling, came the rough reply. Alexis grimaced faintly, her lips twitching as if she was trying to suppress the instinct to wince at herself. Her eyes shut for a beat, lashes brushing fever-warmed skin. It's the fever. I don't... talk like this. Not about myself. Not really.

A swallow. The muscles in her throat tightened as embarrassment crept into her voice.

—I probably sound ridiculous.

—You don't, Olivia said without pause, her voice steady, quiet but firm. You sound like someone who's been holding everything in for a long time. And who finally let a little of it out.

Alexis shifted slightly beneath the blanket, enough for Olivia to feel the movement where her hand still rested gently atop her forearm. There was a pause–long and quiet–and for a moment, Benson thought she might've slipped back into that hazy edge of sleep.

But then, softer than before, the young woman spoke again.

—It's easier when I don't talk about it, she confessed, barely above a whisper. Most of the time, if I pretend it doesn't matter... it almost doesn't.

The lieutenant's fingers gave the faintest squeeze in response–not pressing, just there. Present.

—I know that feeling, she said. But it does matter. And so do you.

No protest followed. No sarcastic deflection or shrug. Just stillness–and the sense that, for once, Alexis was letting the words settle in without pushing them away. Letting herself believe, if only a little.

The apartment had settled into a gentle stillness, broken only by the soft tick of the radiator and the occasional sleepy sigh from Champ, stretched out near the foot of the bed. The quiet wrapped around the room like a thick, familiar blanket. Olivia sat leaned back against the headboard, one leg bent beneath her, the glow of her phone lighting her face in intervals. She scrolled slowly, eyes flicking over updates she wasn't fully processing–half-distracted by the quiet rhythm of Alexis' breathing just inches away.

At last, the younger woman had given in to real sleep. Not the restless, half-aware drifting from earlier, but something deeper–limbs slack, face softened, the tension she wore like armor finally eased for a little while. However, she didn't lie still for long. Not completely.

Even in sleep, Alexis moved with the unconscious restlessness of someone not used to staying still. A sigh escaped her, low and muted, as her body shifted under the weight of fever and dreams. The quilt slipped lower, sliding down past her hips to pool loosely around her thighs. Olivia didn't notice at first–still scrolling, mind somewhere between SVU reports and the soft cadence of late afternoon–but the shift of motion caught her eye.

She looked over instinctively, and there–bare skin, long legs stretched half across the mattress, her underwear just barely visible beneath the hem of her tee. Olivia blinked, startled not by the sight itself, but by the sudden, uninvited flush of warmth in her chest. She looked away quickly, not wanting to invade anything sacred, already reaching to gently adjust the blanket—

But before she could move, the agent stirred again.

Without warning, she rolled toward Olivia, slow and heavy like someone chasing comfort in a dream. One leg lifted, bare and warm, draping itself across the lieutenant's lap. Then an arm followed, slipping around her waist with surprising surety. Within seconds, the younger woman had tucked herself close–cheek pressed to her friend's side, breath warm through the fabric of her shirt.

The embrace wasn't neat or careful. It was instinctive. Raw. The kind of unconscious gesture made only when walls were down.

Olivia froze. Not out of discomfort–but out of sheer surprise. She didn't breathe at first, afraid to startle her. And then, as the realization sank in–Alexis Gray was literally cuddling her in her sleep—something twisted in her chest. A slow, impossible mix of tenderness and something else. Something quieter. Something she didn't have the courage to name.

She felt like a teenager again, flushed and still, her pulse drumming faintly in her ears. The SEAL's leg was heavy across hers, warm against her hip. Her arm was slung around her waist like they'd done this a hundred times before.

It was ridiculous. It was sweet. It was intimate in a way Olivia hadn't expected.

She glanced down, brushing a few strands of dark hair from Alexis' forehead with the gentlest touch. And then she settled again–slowly, carefully, her hand resting lightly over the young woman's where it curled against her side.

Outside, the city carried on without them. But here, in this quiet corner of the world, Olivia stayed still.

And she didn't mind at all.

TAGLIST: @ginasbaby @nciscmjunkie @thefatobsession @makkaroni221 @certainlychaotic @hi-i-1 @kiwiana145 @kobayashi-fr @alexis042499

#lala’s fic recs *ೃ༄#𓏲 ₊˚๑( jul ‘25 fic recs )໑‧₊˚.ꪆ #olivia benson fic recs

21 notes · View notes

enretrogue · 1 month ago

Text

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 18 • Burning Out — Part I

TAGLIST FORM

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary: Alexis is sick with the flu.

Content Warning: Usual SVU and Violent Crimes talk • Mention of a new criminal ring, human trafficking, victims, police work | Alexis being sick with the flu

A/N: Hello my loves, another long chapter just for you! I didn’t think this one would be so long, so I made it into two parts. You have the first one today! I’ll leave you to wait and guess what might happen once Olivia drives Alexis home.

Also, just know that I’m still taking requests for Carol Hathaway x fem!reader or fem!OC

MONDAY, MARCH 20

Manhattan — 16th Precinct

09:52 AM

The PR internships had clearly worked wonders at the Bureau. If nothing else, they’d mastered the art of rapid dissemination. Information, gossip, photos–it all moved faster than a bullet down the hallways of the Manhattan office, as if the walls themselves had ears and the vents carried secrets faster than air.

It took a mere five hours for a single photo of a newborn baby to make the rounds, from the proud father in the Evidence Unit to the break room, where it became the centerpiece of a ten-minute debate over whether the kid looked more like his mom or his dad. The tech team got involved, analyzing the baby’s nose and jawline with the same intensity they reserved for surveillance footage.

Just over thirty minutes for whispers about Reynolds’ closed-door meeting with a Washington official to snake through the office like smoke, mutating from a routine check-in to a rumored shake-up in leadership by the time it reached the bullpen. By lunch, someone swore they heard Reynolds was being promoted to a Pentagon post. By mid-afternoon, it had somehow escalated to a full-blown conspiracy theory involving blackmail and offshore accounts.

But when it came to the flu, it was as if the Bureau had perfected its own brand of biological warfare. Germs spread like wildfire, hitching rides on coffee cups, doorknobs, and hurried conversations. One sniffle at the Monday morning briefing became a chorus of sneezes by lunch. By the end of the day, agents were walking around with tissues jammed into their jacket pockets, eyes red and voices hoarse, and the sound of coughing echoed through the hallways like a morbid symphony.

Alexis, despite her reluctance to accept it, was one of them.

She’d tried to deny it, of course. Chalked up the sore throat to last night’s stakeout in the rain, the pounding headache to too much coffee and not enough sleep. But even now, as she pushed open the door to the SVU precinct and stepped inside, the scratch in her throat was sharp enough to make her wince.

Miles followed close behind, his gaze tracking the way her shoulders slumped for just a second, the way her hand lingered against the doorframe as though she needed that extra beat to steady herself. It was subtle–the kind of pause most people wouldn’t notice. But he wasn’t most people, and he’d known the SEAL long enough to catch the way her jaw clenched, the way her breath came shallow and thin, as if sheer willpower could keep the flu at bay.

He didn’t say anything at first, just watched her pull herself together, her spine straightening as she pushed forward into the building. But when he fell into step beside her, hands shoved into his coat pockets and a faint smirk ghosting across his lips, the words slipped out before he could stop them.

—You know, you’re not as sneaky as you think.

Alexis shot him a sidelong look, eyes narrowed, but the glare didn’t have its usual bite. Beneath the fluorescent lights, the hollows under her eyes looked deeper, the skin beneath them faintly bruised with exhaustion. Her cheeks were flushed, a patchy, uneven red that had more to do with fever than the lingering cold outside.

—Don’t start, she muttered, her voice a rasp of gravel and smoke.

The words scraped against her throat, coming out thicker than she intended, more growl than threat. Her eyes narrowed, and her jaw tightened as she glanced sideways at her partner, who didn’t bother hiding the smirk twisting his mouth.

—Oh, I’m starting. You’ve been coughing into your shoulder like a Victorian orphan for the last twenty-four hours. I’m just waiting for you to faint dramatically into someone’s arms.

His tone was laced with a blend of concern and exasperation, his eyes flicking over her pale complexion. She was holding herself too rigidly, her shoulders bunched beneath her coat, as if sheer defiance could hold her upright.

—I don’t faint, she shot back, the words tight, clipped.

A bead of sweat traced a path down her temple, but she swiped it away with the back of her hand, her glare fixed straight ahead, away from the elevator. The street outside the precinct was a blur of cars and pedestrians, a cacophony of honking cabs, muffled voices, and the distant wail of sirens, all merging into a single, relentless hum that seemed to press against her skull.

The air pressed down like a wet, heavy blanket, each breath thick and laborious, every step dragging as though the floor were a few inches deeper than it should be. Beyond the glass doors, Manhattan blurred by in chaotic bursts of motion—too loud, too bright, too fast. Inside, each ache and shiver felt amplified, as though the walls themselves had grown heavy with the weight of it.

—No, right, of course. You just lose your voice, run a low-grade fever, and glare at thermometers like they’re FBI informants who lied to you.

Miles’ voice cut through the fog of her exhaustion, his tone threaded with that particular blend of frustration and concern that made him sound more like a scolding older brother than a partner. His eyes were sharp and unblinking, tracking her every move as if he were waiting for her knees to buckle. His hands burrowed deep into his coat pockets, shoulders squared, jaw tight–like he was chewing over words he knew better than to say.

His friend rolled her eyes, the movement slow and deliberate, as though even that small gesture required more effort than she could spare. The corner of her mouth twitched, the beginnings of a smirk that almost took shape before it fell away, her expression hardening back into that stoic, impassive mask as they drew closer to the Special Victims Unit bullpen.

Inside, the air was thick with the restless hum of detectives and officers moving between desks, coffee cups clutched like talismans against the fatigue weighing them down. Phones rang, voices rose in clipped exchanges, and folders slapped onto cluttered surfaces with the kind of sharp, anxious energy that suggested no one had slept much in days.

—You’re the one who gave it to me.

—Me? Langford scoffed, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and defensiveness. I’ve been living on Lysol and prayer since Charlie and Ava started coughing up lungs at the start of the month.

—Exactly. Alexis lifted a finger, jabbing it toward him as they neared the bullpen doors. You brought that plague into the Bureau. And then last Thursday, you let Heist–Heist, Miles–do my coffee run. Heist. Who literally sneezed into his hand and wiped it on a file the same morning.

Miles nearly choked on his coffee.

—That was a misunderstanding.

—I saw him stir it, she said flatly, her eyes narrowed to slits. With the lid. And then look around like he committed a war crime.

The man barked out a laugh, shaking his head as they reached the front desk.

—So instead of going home to sleep this off like a normal person, you’ve decided to infect the entire precinct out of spite.

—I don’t have time to be sick, Gray said, offering the reception officer a nod as they passed. We’ve got four potential victims still unaccounted for, two names we haven’t ID’d from yesterday’s interview pool, and Carisi is in court all day. I’ll sleep when the ring’s taken down.

Miles came to a halt in front of the conference room door, one hand braced against the frame as he turned to look at her.

—You’re gonna be a real joy to be around when you start hallucinating.

—Flu’s not gonna kill me.

—It might kill Heist if he brings you another coffee.

—Not denying that.

MONDAY, MARCH 20

Manhattan — 16th Precinct

11:03 AM

Olivia had handled a whole host of crises in the morning, but she hadn’t expected this one.

The bullpen was a cacophony of noise and movement, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and tension. Phones blared with insistent rings, keyboards clattered beneath frantic fingers, and voices rose and fell like crashing waves as detectives barked orders across desks, each one an anchor amid the chaos. The evidence boards were a patchwork of photos, maps, and scribbled notes, threads of red yarn snaking between names and locations, connecting dots that refused to align.

But amidst all that noise and fury, it was the scene unfolding just beyond Amanda’s desk that brought the lieutenant to a sudden, dead stop.

The blonde detective was seated, shoulders hunched forward as she watched the tableau with a frown etched deep into her brow. Miles stood beside her, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw clenched so tight that the muscles pulsed beneath his skin. His light eyes tracked his partner, who was leaning heavily against the wall just outside the conference room, her head tipped back, eyes closed, the line of her throat working with each shallow breath.

Alexis’s skin was flushed, a feverish bloom staining her cheeks, and sweat glistening along her hairline, dampening the loose strands that had escaped her small bun. In her hand, she held a half-empty bottle of Gatorade, its cap dangling from her fingertips, forgotten. The bottle wobbled as her grip weakened, but she didn’t seem to notice. The only movement was the subtle, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, each breath dragging as if it cost her something just to keep standing.

Olivia’s stomach twisted, a coil of tension knotting low beneath her ribs. The commander wasn’t just tired. She was running on fumes, and the fumes were burning out.

—What the hell is going on?

Amanda hesitated, her gaze darting to the agent as if searching for backup, but he kept his eyes on Gray, his jaw set, the muscle working beneath the tight line of his clenched teeth. Rollins’s lips parted, then pressed shut again before she exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping as she finally spoke.

—She won’t go home.

The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, sinking between them like stones dropped into a still lake. The oldest’s gaze narrowed, the edges of her jaw tightening as her eyes darted back to the SEAL. The younger woman’s skin gleamed with a fine sheen of sweat, a drop tracing a slow path from her temple to her jawline before disappearing beneath her collar. Her head rolled slightly against the wall, and for a moment, her eyelids fluttered, as though she were fighting to stay conscious, to keep her eyes open.

—Won’t? Benson echoed, her voice hardening, sharpening to a point that cut through the surrounding noise.

Miles’ shoulders tensed, the muscles rigid beneath the fabric of his shirt, his jaw clenched so tightly that a vein pulsed visibly beneath his skin. He pushed away from the desk with a restless, almost frustrated energy, his hands coming to rest on his hips, fingers splayed as if grounding himself. But his eyes never left his friend. His gaze remained locked on Alexis, dark and intense, the concern simmering beneath his sharp, frustrated expression

—Told Reynolds to shove it. Said she’s not going anywhere until the case is closed.

Amanda shook her head, a weary exhale slipping past her lips. The coffee cup crumpled beneath her grip, the cardboard sleeve collapsing inwards, and she seemed to realize it only when a drop of lukewarm coffee dribbled onto her thumb. She hissed a curse under her breath, but her gaze stayed fixed on Olivia, her brows knitting together, a thin line of tension deepening between them.

—Their unit chief tried to send her home hours ago, she said, her voice low and edged with something close to apology, as though she were personally responsible for Alexis’ stubbornness. She said we still have potential victims unaccounted for. Names we haven’t ID’d yet from yesterday’s interviews. And with Carisi stuck in court all day, she thinks she can’t afford to leave.

The blonde’s shoulders slumped, her expression tightening as her eyes drifted back to the sick agent, who still leaned against the wall as though it were the only thing keeping her upright.

—She said she can sleep when it’s over.

Olivia’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding so hard she could feel the tension radiating up through her temples. The sight of her friend sagging against the wall, her eyes closed, head tilted back like she was hanging on by a thread, twisted something deep in the lieutenant’s gut. It wasn’t just exhaustion. It was the kind of bone-deep fatigue that dragged people down, made them reckless. Made them vulnerable.

—That’s enough.

The oldest didn’t wait for a responde, didn’t give either of them time to interject. She strode forward, her heels clicking against the linoleum with deliberate, unyielding steps. Each stride was purposeful, slicing through the chaotic buzz of the bullpen like a blade through a fog.

Alexis didn’t open her eyes until Olivia was right in front of her, the shadow of the older woman cutting through the fluorescent light. The SVU leader folded her arms, the lines of her jaw set in a hard, unforgiving line as she stared down at the SEAL.

Up close, the youngest looked worse than Olivia had anticipated. Her skin was flushed, the fever painting her cheeks in uneven splotches of red, and her eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion and glassy with something dangerously close to delirium. The Gatorade bottle dangled from her limp fingers, the cap askew, a few drops trickling down her knuckles to splatter the floor.

—Gray. You’re done. You’re going home.

The agent pushed off the wall, the motion unsteady, her knees threatening to buckle beneath her. She caught herself with one hand, palm splayed against the cool surface as if the wall itself were the only thing keeping her upright. Her shoulders rose and fell with each shallow breath, each exhalation a rough, wheezing rasp. Still, she tilted her chin defiantly, her eyes narrowing as she tried to muster some semblance of composure.

—I’m fine, she rasped, her voice a hoarse whisper that barely made it past her chapped lips. I just need a minute.

—A minute? Olivia echoed, her brow lifting, her arms unfolding as she stepped closer, invading the woman’s space with an intensity that left little room to escape. You need a bed, a gallon of water, and about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. Not another minute leaning against this wall like you’re trying to hold it up.

Alexis’ jaw clenched, the muscle ticking beneath her fever-flushed skin. A flicker of defiance sparked in her eyes, momentarily cutting through the fog of exhaustion. But it was brief, a flash of fire quickly snuffed out by the oppressive weight of her body’s betrayal.

—There are victims we haven’t found yet. I can’t just—

—You can, the lieutenant cut in, her voice sharp as a snapped wire, the words slicing through the space between them. And you will. You’re no good to anyone like this, Lexi. You’re burning out, and you’re gonna crash. And when you do, it’s not going to be pretty.

The brunette swallowed, her throat bobbing visibly, the muscles in her neck taut with strain. Her gaze dropped, her eyes landing somewhere near Olivia’s collarbone, and for a moment, it was as though she couldn’t quite focus, couldn’t quite find the strength to hold her head up.

But then, with a burst of stubborn resolve that was more desperation than strength, Alexis pushed away from the wall. Her spine straightened, shoulders squaring as if sheer force of will could hold her upright. Her hand trembled as she dug into her coat pocket, the fingers clumsy, fumbling, before finally closing around the familiar shape of her SUV keys.

The keyring jingled in her grip, the sharp metallic sound slicing through the bullpen’s ambient noise like a blade. Her jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath the fever-flushed skin as she forced herself to take a step forward, her legs stiff and unsteady beneath her. She moved toward the bullpen doors, eyes narrowed, gaze fixed on the exit as if reaching it were a mission in itself.

Benson’s eyes darkened, a shadow of irritation flickering over her face as she watched her friend retreating back. The sight of the keys in the younger woman’s grip snapped something tight inside her, a wire drawn too taut. She stepped forward, her stride decisive, each step sharp and purposeful as she closed the distance between them.

—You’re not driving, she said, her voice low and firm as her hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Alexis’ wrist, a quick but gentle grip. With a swift, unyielding twist, she pried the keys from the agent’s shaky grasp, the cool metal pressing into her own palm, solid and unmoving. Not like this.

Gray’s eyes snapped up, a flare of anger igniting behind the glassy sheen of exhaustion. Her cheeks were blotchy with fever, eyes rimmed red, and yet she tried to muster a glare, the same fierce, unrelenting defiance she wore like armor.

—Give them back, she bit out, her voice raw and frayed, each word edged with a rasp that threatened to splinter. She lifted a hand to grab for the keys, but the movement sent a tremor through her frame, a shiver that rippled from shoulders to knees. I’m fine, Liv. It’s just a cold. I’m not a kid.

Olivia’s expression hardened, her jaw set as she slipped the keys into her own coat pocket, out of reach.

—No, you’re not. But you’re also not invincible. You can barely stand up straight, and if you think I’m going to let you get behind the wheel in this state, you’re out of your damn mind.

Alexis opened her mouth, her lips parting around what was likely a retort, but the words never came. Instead, a deep, chesty cough burst from her, the sound thick and wet, a jagged rasp that echoed through the bullpen like a gunshot. The force of it doubled her over, one hand flying to her mouth as the other shot out to grasp the edge of a nearby desk. The coughing fit racked through her body, each convulsion knocking the breath from her lungs, leaving her swaying, eyes clenched shut, face pinched with pain.

The bullpen went silent. Conversations dropped off, detectives exchanging wary glances as the sound reverberated off the walls. Amanda shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her gaze cutting to Miles, whose jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter. Fin, across the room, crossed his arms, eyes narrowed, his expression a mask of concern and frustration.

When the fit finally subsided, Alexis sagged against the desk, her shoulders heaving as she struggled to pull in air, each breath a shallow, wheezing gasp. Sweat had gathered at her temples, and a faint tremor ran through her hands, her knuckles white where they gripped the desk’s edge.

The SVU lieutenant stepped closer, the toes of her boots nearly brushing against Alexis’. The proximity forced the youngest to tilt her head up, the movement draining what little strength she had left.

Olivia’s expression softened, the rigid lines around her mouth easing just slightly, a flicker of something warmer, more compassionate, breaking through the hardened facade she wore like armor. But her jaw remained tight, clenched with a tension that pulsed beneath her skin, her eyes fixed on the woman with a steady, unwavering gaze.

—Alexis, she said, voice dropping to a low, insistent murmur, each syllable deliberate, a coaxing thread woven through the steel. You’re done. You’re going home.

The soldier swallowed, the motion visible in the taut line of her throat, her jaw working as she fought against the exhaustion pressing down on her like a weight. The muscles in her neck tensed, and her gaze flicked away, unable to meet Olivia’s eyes, instead focusing somewhere near the lieutenant’s shoulder. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths, the sound harsh and uneven, as if each inhale scraped against raw lungs.

—I can still—

—No. Not another word. You’re going home, and I’m driving you.

For a beat, Alexis’ mouth opened, a protest forming on her lips, but Liv was already moving. Her spine straightened, shoulders squared as she lifted her head, eyes scanning the bullpen until they landed on Fin, who stood by the coffee machine, arms crossed over his chest, brows drawn together in a deep furrow.

—Fin, she called, the authority in her voice slicing through the room. I’m heading out again. You’re in charge until I get back.

The former Ranger’s gaze shifted from his boss to the FBI agent, his expression tightening as he took in the younger woman’s pale, sweat-slicked face.

—Got it.

Olivia didn’t wait for a response, didn’t give Alexis another chance to argue. She moved forward, one hand wrapping around her bicep, firm but gentle, guiding her toward the exit with a steady, insistent pressure.

Alexis’ legs were heavy beneath her, feet dragging slightly with each step, and Olivia kept her arm securely around her back, a subtle support that kept the woman from stumbling. The younger woman’s body felt too warm against her, the fever radiating through the thin barrier of their clothing, each shaky breath catching as if the air were too thick to pull in.

Inside the elevator, the fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across Gray’s face, accentuating the dark circles beneath her eyes and the unhealthy flush painting her cheeks. The lieutenant kept her hand at the small of her back, steady and unyielding, even as Alexis leaned against the wall, her head falling back with a soft thud. For a moment, her eyes drifted shut, lashes fluttering against skin that was damp with sweat, but then they snapped open again, hazy and unfocused.

—I don’t need you to babysit me, the brunette muttered, the words slurring together, voice raspy and thin, a strained rasp that grated against Olivia’s ears. I can take care of myself.

Benson’s gaze remained fixed forward, her jaw clamped tight, teeth grinding as the elevator descended.

—Yeah? she said, sarcasm coiled through every syllable, her eyes hard and unyielding. You’re doing a great job of that. You nearly coughed up a lung back there. You want me to call an ambulance next time?

Alexis’ brow knitted, the scowl trying to form but losing its shape beneath the exhaustion dragging at her features. Whatever retort she might have had withered before it could take shape, her eyelids sinking lower as another shiver rattled through her. She pressed her head back against the wall, the cool metal biting against overheated skin, eyes slipping shut once more as her breathing hitched, each inhale a ragged, congested rasp.

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open to the lobby, and Olivia tightened her grip around her friend’s waist, bracing her as they stepped forward. The street outside was a chaotic blur of honking cars, shouting pedestrians, and the distant wail of a siren cutting through the din. Benson barely registered it. All her focus was on the SUV parked at the curb, its dark windows reflecting the gray sky.

She moved swiftly, unlocking the passenger door with a quick press of her thumb against the key fob, the mechanical beep cutting through the din. The door swung open with a groan, and the lieutenant turned to Alexis, one hand still pressed to the small of her back, the other sliding down to steady her arm. The muscles beneath her palm were tense, and the young brunette swayed slightly, her knees unsteady, the fever robbing her of any sense of equilibrium.

—In you go, Olivia said, her voice softer now, a gentle note threading through the firm command.

Alexis hesitated, her gaze drifting to the driver’s seat, her jaw clenching as though she could grind the tension away. A muscle jumped beneath the flushed skin of her cheek, and for a moment, she looked like she was going to argue. Her eyes were dark, glassy, and rimmed with exhaustion, a storm of defiance and fatigue churning behind them.

—You don’t have to—

—Yes, I do, Olivia interrupted, her tone sharp but not unkind, the words slicing through the fog of resistance that clung to the commander like a second skin. Get in. We’re going home.

For a long, weighted beat, Alexis just stood there, the Gatorade bottle still dangling from her limp fingers, the condensation dripping onto the sidewalk in slow, deliberate drops. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths, and the tension around her mouth tightened, the defiance slipping away like sand through a sieve. Then, with a heavy, defeated exhale, her shoulders slumped. The fight bled out of her in a single, weary motion, and she ducked her head, sliding into the passenger seat with the sluggish, heavy movements of someone whose body was beginning to betray them.

Olivia lingered there for a moment, eyes tracing the curve of Alexis’ cheekbone, the droop of her eyelids, the tremor in her jaw as she leaned her head back against the seat. Then she pulled in a deep breath, the air sharp and cold against her lungs, and shut the door with a firm, decisive click.

Rounding the front of the vehicle, the oldest moved to the driver’s side, her boots splashing through a shallow puddle as she adjusted the seat and slipped behind the wheel. The engine rumbled to life beneath them, a low, steady hum that vibrated through the cabin. Olivia adjusted the vents, angling them toward Alexis as she pulled away from the curb, the rain-slicked streets unfurling before them in a wash of gray and silver.

Beside her, the young SEAL had slumped against the window, her forehead pressed to the glass, her eyes half-lidded and unfocused. The Gatorade bottle rolled lazily in her lap, rocking back and forth with each turn Olivia made, the condensation smearing across her fingers. Her breaths came slow and thick, each one a ragged draw that seemed to pull too much effort from her already weakened frame.

Olivia’s jaw flexed as she tightened her grip on the wheel, her knuckles blanching as she forced herself to keep her eyes on the road. Outside, the rain fell in soft, rhythmic taps against the windshield, the wipers swiping back and forth with a steady, hypnotic rhythm that drummed in time with the heavy thud of her pulse. But every few seconds, she found herself glancing sideways, her gaze drifting over the curve of Alexis’ profile, the flush on her cheeks, the lines of fatigue etched into her brow.

—You want me to crack a window? she asked, her voice soft, the words slipping out before she could think better of them.

The brunette didn’t respond. Her eyes had drifted closed, the tension in her jaw finally loosening, the lines of her face softening as sleep began to drag her under. Olivia could still hear the slight hitch in her breathing, the faint rasp of congestion that clung to each exhale.

She swallowed, the movement tight, her throat working around something thick and unnameable. The knot in her chest twisted tighter, pulling at her ribs, as she forced her gaze back to the road, the world outside blurring beneath the steady sweep of the wipers. Beside her, Alexis slept on, her forehead resting against the cool glass, her breaths slow and even now, her body sinking deeper into the seat with each passing second.

And Olivia just kept driving, jaw set, eyes fixed on the road ahead as rain streamed down the windshield like a veil, her hands steady on the wheel despite the tremor in her chest.

TAGLIST: @ginasbaby @nciscmjunkie @thefatobsession @makkaroni221 @certainlychaotic @hi-i-1 @kiwiana145 @kobayashi-fr @alexis042499

#lala’s fic recs *ೃ༄#𓏲 ₊˚๑( jul ‘25 fic recs )໑‧₊˚.ꪆ #olivia benson fic recs

23 notes · View notes

enretrogue · 1 month ago

Text

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 17 • The Weight We Carry

TAGLIST FORM

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary: Miles explains what happened to Olivia and Amanda. Alexis runs after a suspect.

Content Warning: Usual SVU & Violent Crime talk • SA, bruises, mention of a struggle, description of a victim, assault, mention of med support | mention of a sick kid and sickness | Blood | Getting hurt | Falling down the stairs | Fight Scene • people getting hit and all

A/N: Hello my loves! Another long chapter just for you. Nothing to do with AGENT GRAY or Law and Order SVU, but I recently posted a quick survey on my blog to see if people would be interested in me writing some Carol Hathaway x fem!reader or fem!OC.

Carol is a character in THE ER series. If you're interested, let me know!

TUESDAY, MARCH 07

Manhattan— Charity Gala

11:07 PM

The ballroom looked like a dream abandoned mid-sentence, as if the narrative of glamour and celebration had been torn away halfway through and replaced with something raw and uncertain.

Hours earlier, it had been a study in opulence: laughter rising in elegant swells beneath a canopy of chandeliers, music rippling through the air like silk, the clink of crystal glasses echoing across marble floors polished to a mirror finish. Now, all of it felt ghostly–like a memory already fading.

In place of evening gowns and champagne toasts were officers in tactical gear, paramedics moving with hushed urgency, and evidence technicians slipping quietly through the space where society's elite had been mingling not long before. Radios hissed with quiet updates and clipped commands, a harsh contrast to the string quartet that had once filled the corners of the room with forgettable elegance.

The scent of expensive perfume still clung faintly to the drapery and floating votives, but it had been overtaken by the clinical bite of antiseptic, latex gloves, and something darker–metallic, earthy, a coppery undertone that carried panic in its wake. The atmosphere had changed, subtly but unmistakably. Where once there had been laughter and performance, now there was only tension. Purpose. A different kind of urgency.

Miles stood near one of the towering window panes, his figure partially framed by the cold gleam of the glass. Beyond it, Manhattan stretched out in glittering stillness, towers of steel and light stabbing into the night like monuments to ambition. The city was dazzling, yes–but distant, impersonal. A world apart from the one he inhabited in that moment.

His reflection stared faintly back at him: suit jacket still on, but his tie loosened, the top button of his shirt undone in silent defiance of the night's earlier formality. His shoulders were set a little too tight, the kind of posture that came not just from long hours, but from a deeper fatigue–the kind that lived in the spine and didn't go away with rest.

He should've been home by now.

Ava had called just after lunch–his wife's voice tinny through the earpiece, scratchy with the congestion she hadn't even tried to hide. Their daughter, Charlie, had caught the flu over the weekend. Her mother had tried to hold out, tried to play nurse and mom and functioning adult all at once, but Miles had heard it in her voice: the weariness, the faint edge of desperation. She wasn't doing great either. Fever. Nausea. Exhaustion. He'd promised he'd be home by ten.

But then the night had veered sideways.

The sharp, rhythmic click of heels on marble broke through the low murmur of radios and medical chatter, drawing the agent's eyes toward the ballroom's side entrance. The double doors opened with a gentle whisper, their heavy frames barely stirring the air–yet it was enough. He turned fully just as two familiar figures stepped into view.

Lieutenant Benson and detective Rollins entered like calm through a storm. They moved with the kind of measured precision that came from years of walking into scenes where beauty and violence met at the same table. Their eyes swept across the room with quiet alertness–taking in the shift in mood, the tension in the air, the cocktail of panic and professionalism that always followed violence in unexpected places.

Gone were the gowns and bow ties, replaced by the clean, efficient lines of Kevlar, shields at their belts, flashlights clipped and steady. Their presence threaded authority into the frayed edges of the room, grounding it in something steadier than the lingering chaos. What was once a ballroom–dripping in wealth, power, and performance–now resembled the scene of a collapse: a place where illusion shattered and left behind only questions.

Miles met them halfway, leaving behind the glow of the city lights that still blinked beyond the glass like they didn't care what happened inside.

—Hey, he said, voice low, the weariness woven through his tone like threadbare fabric. Sorry for the late hour.

Amanda gave him a half-smile, one corner of her mouth tugging up with dry familiarity.

—You say that like it's not our favorite time to be called in.

—Fair enough, he huffed softly through his nose. His gaze shifted toward Olivia, his expression pinched but steady. Thanks for coming. I know it's not what anyone expected when they got dressed tonight.

The lieutenant's eyes, sharp as always, scanned the room behind him. She took in the paramedics crouched beside the bathroom entrance, the officers taping off the hallway, the glint of shattered glass near the refreshment table. A trace of confusion crossed her face before it hardened into that familiar calm–a quiet readiness that only came from experience.

—What happened?

Langford exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that came from hours of pent-up tension. He dragged a hand down his face, fingertips pressing briefly at his temple before he lowered it and nodded toward the far end of the ballroom. Just past the last strip of yellow tape, beneath a gold wall sconce that still flickered like it hadn't gotten the memo, stood Esme Harrington.

Even now–disheveled and stripped of the curated lighting and attentive crowd–she looked like she belonged in the center of every photograph. Arms crossed beneath a draped shawl someone had handed her, one hip cocked in that casual defiance that blurred the line between model and politician. Her expression was unreadable, molded into that glossy mask celebrities wore when chaos dared touch their edge of the world. Under the watch of another FBI agent and two NYPD uniforms, she didn't seem nervous. Just... bored.

—We were here on security detail, Miles explained, voice low and even, his gaze lingering on the woman like he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. FBI assignment. Harrington's had some credible threats against her the past few months–stalker-type stuff. Most of it digital. Comment sections, emails, private messages from burner accounts. But a couple of things crossed the line.

The blonde's eyes tracked the poised figure standing across the room with the scrutiny of someone recognizing both trouble and tabloid headlines from fifty paces. She let out a low whistle, her tone laced with equal parts disbelief and amusement as she tilted her head toward the agent.

—Is that the Esme Harrington? The 'feminine rage' books and wine-soaked podcast rants? The one who got banned from Twitter three times?

Miles gave a slow, resigned nod, like a man who had already endured more than enough commentary on the subject.

—In the flesh.

Amanda leaned on one hip, folding her arms with the practiced ease of someone settling in for a bit of fun.

—Let me guess–she was just thrilled to have federal agents posted at her elbow all night. Probably thought the Bureau should've sent someone with a fan club and an audiobook subscription.

Miles held up both hands in mock surrender.

—Hey, Harrington wasn't interested in me. Not even a little. She had tunnel vision for Alexis all night.

Amanda's eyebrows shot up in delight, the corners of her mouth twitching as she made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

—Oh no. She went after your partner? Bold choice. That explains the frosty glare from—

She paused for effect, her eyes sliding toward Olivia with theatrical innocence, though her expression was anything but subtle.

Benson stood beside them with the kind of composed stillness that only came after years of walking into disaster zones wrapped in glamour. She had maintained a veneer of detached professionalism since her arrival, eyes trained on the quiet bustle at the far end of the ballroom where medics folded trauma blankets with the precision of ritual. Her arms were crossed loosely, posture relaxed but attentive–until Amanda's words nudged her with more intent than teasing.

At the detective's pointed glance, Olivia blinked–just once–but the shift in her gaze was telling. She turned her head with an almost exaggerated slowness, the kind of pivot feigned curiosity while trying to hide how much it already knew.

—What glare?

Miles couldn't stop the grin that overtook his face. The weight in his shoulders didn't vanish, but it lifted slightly, as if the familiar banter peeled off just enough of the night's heaviness.

—You mean the one you just gave when I said Esme flirted with Alexis? he said, unable to resist the jab.

Olivia's reply came a fraction too quickly.

—I didn't give a glare.

Amanda, who had been waiting for exactly that, leaned in with delight. Her tone dropped to a conspiratorial murmur, the corners of her mouth tugging upward like someone about to drop a punchline they'd been sitting on all evening.

—Oh, you kind of did. Very subtle, though. Like a Supreme Court justice voicing dissent with a raised eyebrow.

Her boss' exhale was audible, brief but pointed, as she pressed her lips together in a thin, diplomatic line. It wasn't quite a smile, and it wasn't quite a denial either. Her gaze flicked away from the blonde, scanning the room with practiced indifference.

—I just think it's inappropriate to flirt with someone at a professional event–especially with a federal agent.

Miles let out a quiet snort, the sound dry and low in his throat, as his arms folded across his chest. His stance, until then tight with fatigue and focus, softened just enough to betray the thread of amusement winding beneath the surface.

–Uh-huh, he said, the sound a low hum of amused disbelief. He didn't bother hiding the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, nor the raised brow that accompanied it. His voice slid easily into sarcasm, warm and unbothered, the tone of a man who'd seen through the veil and decided to make himself comfortable there. Sure. Just your average, principled disapproval. Completely objective. Nothing personal at all. Really.

Amanda didn't miss a beat. Her nod came slow and exaggerated, like she was cosigning a joke before it even landed. The grin that tugged at her mouth was sharp, wicked with delight, as if she'd been waiting all night for an opening like this. She leaned in just slightly–close enough that her words teased the edges of Olivia's composure, but angled toward Miles like they were co-conspirators in a courtroom sidebar.

—Translation, she murmured, her voice rich with mock gravity. Alexis is hers. And Esme can take her poetic metaphors and go long for someone else's end zone.

The breath that the lieutenant exhaled was almost imperceptible, a slow release of air through her nose, as though she were gently counting down from ten in the privacy of her own thoughts. Her arms crossed, not stiffly but with intention, and her eyes slid toward her detective with a level of stillness that was more precise than any outburst.

—Are you quite done?

Though the words were measured, there was a thin line of tension beneath them, a tautness that betrayed more than she intended. Olivia's gaze lingered on Rollins a beat too long, eyes narrowed just enough to send a message that didn't need translation. The thick of her jaw was almost invisible, but there if you knew where to look.

—Because while you two are busy writing fanfiction, she continued. I'm still thinking about the woman barely conscious on the bathroom floor.

Amanda blinked once, mouth pulling into a line that hovered somewhere between apology and rebellion. She nodded, but not without the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth–amusement flickering in her eyes like an ember not quite ready to die.

—Right, she cleared her throat. Victim. Crime. Federal agents. My bad.

The agent exhaled through his nose, and the residual grin that had lingered at the edge of his mouth finally faded. The lines in his face settled into something heavier, older, as though the weight of the night had just resettled across his shoulders. He straightened, his posture adjusting—not to impress or perform, but to re-engage the muscle memory of command.

—You're right, he said, voice quieter now. Woman in her late twenties. Found in the ladies' restroom around 9:20. Alexis was escorting Harrington when they got to the door. It wasn't locked. She opened it and–

He paused for a beat, jaw tightening before he continued.

—Victim was on the floor. Dress torn at the shoulder, visible bruising–jawline, upper arms, thighs. No ID on her, no bag, no phone. Pulse was weak when they found her. Breathing shallow, eyes half-open, but not responsive. Barely conscious.

Benson's face changed the moment he finished. Her expression pulled inward, sharpened into something hard and deliberate, the same way a lens adjusts to bring something brutal into focus.

—Did she say anything?

Miles shook his head.

—No. She wasn't lucid. Couldn't give a name. Couldn't track movements. EMS says she's being stabilized and transported to Mount Sinai under escort. If she makes it through the night, maybe we'll get a name in the morning–if not from her, then from tox or DNA.

Amanda had gone still beside them, the joking fully burned off now. Her arms were crossed tight against her chest, eyes scanning the far side of the ballroom like she could somehow piece together the whole crime scene with a single glance. Olivia, meanwhile, glanced toward the corridor at the edge of the room–the same hall Alexis had apparently disappeared into. Her silence wasn't idle; it was loaded with calculation.

—Do you have a suspect? she asked, turning her eyes back to him.

—Alexis saw someone lingering near the corridor while security was still pushing the crowd out. He didn't belong—not the way he moved. Hoodie half-zipped, sneakers scuffed, head low, but he kept looking over his shoulder. Most people were heading for the main exit. He was going the wrong direction—and fast. Face wrong too. Not panic, not confusion. It was that look people get when they're trying to outwalk consequences. She made the call in less than a second. Told Esme to stay with me. Then she was gone.

Amanda's brow creased, her tone dropping with concern.

—She chased him? Alone?

Miles shrugged, but it didn't carry the relaxed rhythm of someone brushing it off. There was a weight behind it, the kind that came from knowing someone too well.

—It's Lexi. She runs toward trouble before the rest of us can even name it.

Silence fell for a beat, heavy and unspoken.

Olivia didn't move, but her jaw clenched, the tick just visible beneath the muted ballroom lights. It wasn't just concern in her expression–it was recognition. That split-second decision, that instinct to charge into danger without backup, wasn't foreign to her. It wasn't even unusual in this line of work.

But in Alexis' case, it wasn't just a reflex. It was a pattern. One Olivia had started to notice months ago, even if she hadn't dared say it out loud. One that came with too many memories–of partners walking into dark places and not walking out again. Her silence wasn't confusion.

It was memory.

Alexis was still running.

The corridor stretched before her like a vein of sterile light, white tiles gleaming beneath the flicker of overhead fluorescents. Each panel buzzed faintly above her, casting clinical rectangles across the floor that blurred underfoot. She ran through them in relentless strides, her boots hitting the linoleum with the dull rhythm of pursuit–measured, steady, but charged with urgency. The pounding of her pulse echoed in her ears, syncing with the ragged edge of her breathing. She was moving on adrenaline now, her muscles singing, throat dry, body honed to the simplicity of the hunt.

Up ahead–close–came the erratic percussion of fleeing footsteps. A stutter. A misstep. The telltale scrape of sneakers turning too fast on polished concrete. The man was fast, but he wasn't trained. His panic had taken over now, burning through any early confidence. He was running like someone being chased. She was chasing like someone who wasn't going to stop.

He'd slipped out of the main ballroom just as security began to corral guests into side exits. The agent had clocked him instantly: hoodie half-zipped, head down, pushing against the current of the crowd. His eyes had darted too quickly. His hands had been clenched too tightly. It wasn't just his direction–it was his intent. She knew the difference. Her hand had been on her weapon before he made it through the side hall.

She hadn't waited. No time for backup, for debate, for protocol. Just a breath, a decision, and a single instruction thrown over her shoulder–"Stay with Langford."

She'd followed him through a labyrinth of narrow staircases and shadowed corridors, each passage colder and more neglected than the last. The scent of bleach clung stubbornly to the walls, mingling with the musty tang of disuse and old concrete. It was the kind of air that felt stale in the lungs, dry in the throat, and loaded with dust from vents that hadn't seen maintenance in years. Her boots thudded with quick, muffled impact across tile, metal, and scuffed linoleum as she stayed on his heels, always just one breath behind.

He was fast–reckless fast–but that wasn't going to be enough. Not against someone who'd done this before. Not against someone trained to pace pursuit with patience and pressure, to close in without noise, to herd someone into exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time. He had no idea how close she was. No idea what was coming.

Her blazer was gone now, flung off mid-run when it began to cling and snag at her shoulders. It lay somewhere behind her, draped over a supply cart or the arm of a folding chair in the chaos of motion. She hardly remembered ditching it. Her shirt stuck damp to her spine, the collar soaked through with sweat, and her right sleeve hung half-detached from where it had ripped against a jut of exposed metal during a sharp turn. The thin sting of broken skin warmed her forearm, already tacky with blood she hadn't had time to inspect.

She slowed at the junction of two narrow service hallways, pressing her back against the cool metal of a maintenance door, breath drawn low and steady in her chest. The flicker of the fluorescent lights above sent sharp-edged shadows skating across the concrete, throwing her into stuttering darkness with each pulse. She welcomed it. Stillness was as much a weapon as movement.

Her ears took over where her eyes couldn't.

There—up ahead. A faint clatter. Lighter than before. Metal underfoot. A pause, then a shift. The sound of a weight changing direction. A faint creak of something old and bolted.

Stairs.

Her fingers ghosted down to the Glock at her hip. She didn't draw it–not yet–but the reassurance of its weight steadied her as she pushed forward, moving in silence.

The stairwell opened up like a throat, exposed piping crawling along the walls, rust blooming in the joints where metal had been left too long to weather. She crouched near the railing, peering downward through the open well.

There. A blur of movement. Two levels down, the suspect was a flicker of gray and black–hood damp with sweat, sneakers slapping against the concrete with diminishing grace. He was rushing, leaping the final steps of each landing in a way that screamed fatigue and desperation.

He hadn't seen her.

Her jaw tightened. This wasn't a shot she needed to take.

She moved.

With speed and silence braided together, Alexis took the next landing, her breath sharp in her chest, boots whispering over the concrete as she descended one flight and stopped. She pressed her back to the wall, the cold biting through the sweat-soaked cotton of her shirt. Two levels down, the suspect had just rounded a corner, his steps now unsteady, driven more by panic than purpose. He stumbled, overextending on a turn, arms flailing slightly to correct his balance.

She didn't hesitate.

One deep breath filled her lungs. Then she moved–fast, fluid, lethal.

The SEAL climbed the stairwell railing, one hand gripping the top bar as she swung herself up. Her boots found purchase on the narrow edge for half a heartbeat. She crouched like a coil of wire, every muscle drawn tight beneath the torn and clinging fabric of her shirt. Her fingers wrapped around the cold metal above her. Her weight shifted.

And then she dropped.

The impact was brutal.

She slammed into him mid-step, shoulder-first into the curve of his spine, her knees driving into his lower back. The air whooshed from his lungs in a strangled gasp as they went down, a chaotic tumble of limbs and startled violence. They struck the landing hard–his ribs crashing into the corner of a stair, her hip bouncing off the metal edge with a jolt of pain that flared hot in her side.

He didn't go limp like some suspects. He didn't surrender.

He exploded.

The man bucked beneath her like a wild animal, catching her with an elbow in the side as he twisted, fingers clawing for her arm, her holster–anything. His fist clipped her cheek, sent a white flash of pain behind her eyes. She grunted, rolled with the hit, pinning his right wrist against the stair as he twisted and–

He surged upward with sudden, panicked strength.

One hand slammed into her collarbone, the other grabbing at the railing behind her. He shoved.

Alexis's boots scraped over the edge. Her spine hit the railing.

The drop yawned beneath her–concrete and steel and four stories of open space. Her balance wavered.

But she caught herself.

Her left foot hooked hard against the bottom bar. She drove her elbow back into his stomach, then her shoulder up into his jaw. He staggered, off-balance now.

She surged forward with a growl, slamming him back against the wall of the stairwell with everything she had. His head thunked against the concrete. Dazed. Stunned. She didn't wait for him to recover.

Her knee buried into his gut, forcing him down. She followed him, driving her forearm into the back of his neck to hold him in place as he fought for breath.

He twisted again, desperate. One last lurch.

She ripped her cuffs from her belt, fingers slick with sweat and blood, and caught his right wrist first. The metal bit into his skin with a satisfying click. He bucked.

She slammed his shoulder into the ground again–firm, controlled, and final.

The second cuff locked in place.

—FBI, she growled into his ear, breath hot, teeth clenched. You're done.

He spat a curse, voice muffled by the floor. But he stopped struggling.

The brunette stayed crouched for a second longer, one palm planted on the cool concrete, the other still pressing down on the suspect's back. Her lungs burned. Her heart thundered. The sting in her arm sharpened now that the adrenaline was ebbing–blood slipping in slow tracks down her forearm, trailing from a jagged gash that had opened beneath the tear in her shirt. The whole sleeve now hung useless, shredded and soaked with sweat and red.

Her comm crackled faintly at her hip, the sound thin and distorted under the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant echo of footsteps above. Alexis exhaled through her nose, sharp and steady, as she shifted her weight and leaned back against the cool cement wall. Her arm throbbed–warm blood still trickling down to her wrist–and her sleeve hung in shreds, the fabric soaked and useless.

She wiped her fingers once against her thigh—half-hearted, smeared more than cleaned—and reached for her radio with a wince.

The button clicked. Her voice came out rough, edged with adrenaline and just enough attitude to be unmistakably hers.

—Hey sunshine. Suspect's down. You owe me a new shirt–and maybe a tetanus shot.

The room was still humming with tension, every corner thrumming with activity–officers moving between statements and instructions, radios spitting static and clipped updates, security teams circling like they were still trying to understand how everything had gone sideways. People were talking over each other in low, urgent voices, the kind that carried the weight of too many questions and not enough answers.

And then the stairwell door slammed open.

Alexis walked through it with the unyielding momentum of a freight train that hadn't been built to stop. Her boots left scuffed streaks on the marble as she dragged the cuffed suspect forward, his body jolting with each uncompromising shove. The man–hoodie damp with sweat, jeans hanging too loose–looked small now, almost pitiful. Dirt streaked his face, and he limped slightly, favoring one side. But the agent gave him no leniency. Her grip on his collar was steel, and her expression unreadable.

Her left shirt sleeve was shredded, fabric hanging like tissue from her shoulder. Blood had soaked through, the trail of it tracking from a torn gash just above her elbow and running down her arm to her hand, where it dripped steadily onto the polished floor with quiet, rhythmic taps. She didn't acknowledge it. She didn't slow.

Miles was the first to turn, catching the sound of her approach before he saw her. Olivia looked up next, instinctively stepping forward. Amanda, just off to the side, narrowed her eyes at the sight of the SEAL's arm, concern flickering beneath her usual squint.

Alexis barely registered their presence. She brought the man to a halt in front of them, shoved him toward the nearest officer, and took a measured step back. Her breath came fast through her nose, chest rising and falling beneath the stained front of her shirt.

—Take him out of my sight, she said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be. It landed like a hammer on concrete–cold, flat, final.

The suspect twisted in the grip of the officer beside him, still catching his breath and clinging to whatever shred of ego he had left.

—Hey! That bitch practically ripped my balls off!

The room stilled. Radios crackled softly in the background, but no one spoke. A long, hanging silence. No one flinched. The youngest detective blinked once, slowly. Her lieutenant's jaw locked. Miles didn't even turn his head.

The agent arched a brow, unimpressed, then offered a lazy shrug, her tone dry enough to blister paint.

—My bad. I'm just a woman. I don't always know the difference between beads and whatever it is you boys call virility.

He opened his mouth, but no more words came. The uniforms didn't give him a chance to try again. They moved, fast and silent, hauling him out without ceremony.

Alexis stood there, blood streaking her arm in slow, deliberate lines, her ruined sleeve still fluttering from her shoulder like a battle flag. The adrenaline was thinning now, leaving her limbs heavy and her breathing sharp. She could already feel the pulse of the cut growing louder.

Her partner approached, cautious but concerned.

—Lex–

But she was already walking.

She didn't explain. Didn't glance back. Just turned and slipped through the chaos like it didn't exist. Out of the main floor, down the short corridor where someone had left a stack of chairs, then out into the early evening air. The cold bit instantly at her sweat-soaked shirt and skin, but it cleared her head. She didn't stop until she hit the sidewalk, then turned down the block toward the unmarked black Bureau SUV parked under a crooked streetlight.

Behind her, Olivia had seen the signs.

She gave her detective a quiet glance, nodded to Miles–I've got her–and followed.

By the time she caught up, the back hatch of the Bureau SUV was already open, its interior light glowing dimly against the encroaching dusk. The city buzzed faintly in the background–car horns, the thrum of passing footsteps, radios chattering across the block. But here, just a few feet away from the chaos inside, it felt like a bubble had formed around the vehicle.

Alexis sat on the edge of the cargo space, legs braced against the bumper, breath slowing with the grit of stubborn control. Her hands moved without hesitation–popping open the emergency kit, digging through gauze and antiseptic like it was second nature. She didn't even glance up as she peeled off what remained of her shirt. The ruined sleeve tore free with a low rip, exposing the angry gash across her upper arm and the sheen of sweat clinging to her skin.

Blood streaked along the muscle, sluggish now, and her fingers–steady, practiced–ripped open a packet of alcohol wipes and pressed it to the wound without so much as a wince.

—You do remember medics exist, right?

Olivia's voice broke the silence just as she stepped into the glow of the hatch. Her arms were crossed, her tone low and tight with something that wasn't just irritation. Concern lived underneath, tempered by the weight of experience. She'd known Alexis less than a year and had already seen her like this far too many times–battered, bloodied, and convinced she had to handle it all herself.

But the commander didn't even look up.

—They're busy. And I'm not dying.

Her voice was dry, matter-of-fact. She didn't lift her gaze as she tore open another antiseptic wipe and dragged it across the edge of the gash, her jaw clenched so tight the other woman could see the muscle flex just beneath her skin. Blood welled, slow but persistent, a deep crimson that painted her forearm with streaks.

—No, but you're bleeding through your sleeve and treating a half-inch wound like it's a paper cut, Olivia said evenly, stepping closer. You can tell me again how 'not dying' is supposed to impress me.

Alexis gave a soft snort, still not looking up.

—You're hard to impress.

—Good. Means you're not getting a medal for ignoring common sense.

There was silence for a beat. The traffic a block away hummed like white noise beneath the city's pulse. The agent shifted, reaching blindly for the roll of gauze she'd dropped beside her on the floor of the cargo hold. The lieutenant caught it first.

—Let me, she said, holding it in both hands–not forceful, but firm.

Alexis finally glanced up. Her eyes flicked to Olivia's face, then down to the gauze, then back again. Something unreadable passed through her expression–annoyance, maybe, or pride refusing to retreat–but it didn't harden like it usually did. Instead, she nodded once.

—You wrap it crooked, I'm doing it over.

—I don't do crooked, the oldest said, stepping in and crouching just enough to reach her arm.

The silence between them settled into something more companionable as Olivia began to wrap the gauze. Her fingers were careful but efficient, confident in the way they worked–field-proven but softened now by something more intimate. Gray didn't flinch, didn't move, just watched her hands as they moved around her bicep.

—You don't have to be like this all the time, you know?

—Like what? Alexis asked, though the edge had dulled from her voice.

—Stone silent. Bleeding. Laughing it off like it's a bar fight.

Alexis looked away again. Her jaw shifted, tongue pressed to the inside of her cheek.

—Old habits.

—I know, the lieutenant said, pulling the gauze snug and pinning it down with medical tape. But you're not in uniform anymore. You don't have to prove you're indestructible.

The agent sat still for a long moment, lips parted like she might respond–but didn't.

Olivia didn't press.

Instead, she reached into the kit and handed Alexis a clean cloth.

—You missed your neck. You look like you walked out of a barbed wire party.

She huffed a tired laugh, accepting it.

—Feels like it.

The brunette wiped her skin in slow passes, the gesture suddenly heavy with exhaustion.

—Thanks.

Benson looked up to her.

—Anytime.

They stayed like that for a moment–two women, out in the open but away from the world, the raised SUV hatch their only shield from the chaos they left behind.

—You're okay?

Alexis didn't answer right away. She glanced down at the gauze, then back up at her friend.

—No, she admitted, and it wasn't sarcasm or deflection, but honest. Quiet. Real. But I will be.

BONUS SCENE:

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 08

Manhattan— Alexis' apartment

01:17 AM

The SUV's engine gave a soft, mechanical sigh as Miles shifted into park. The digital clock on the dash glowed a muted blue, casting faint halos across the console, but outside, the city was a darker kind of still–post-midnight silence stitched together with distant sirens and the rustle of wind along rain-washed pavement. New York didn't sleep, but it did quiet down, and on this block at least, things had gone still.

The building above them stood quiet and familiar, its bricks steeped in shadow and the kind of worn strength that came from surviving too many winters.

The agent sat back in the seat, one hand still loosely curled on the wheel, the other dragging wearily down his face. His skin felt stretched too thin. He blinked slowly, trying to will away the gritty sting behind his eyes. He should've been home hours ago.

Ava was probably curled up on the couch by now, curled under one of the throw blankets she insisted didn't match anything in the house but refused to part with anyway. The tea she'd made earlier was likely cold on the table, untouched. Their daughter had been feverish and clingy, her little hands wrapped in her mother's shirt as she fussed and whimpered, wanting her dad. And Miles—Miles had promised. "I'll be home soon."

And yet, here he was.

—I didn't need a chauffeur, Alexis murmured beside him, breaking the silence as she turned slightly in her seat.

She was in a clean t-shirt now, soft grey cotton tugged slightly where the bandage on her upper arm wrapped snug beneath it. Her braid hung over one shoulder, loose and a little uneven. She sounded tired, but steady.

Her partner gave a faint huff of breath that didn't quite qualify as a laugh.

—You'd have tried to walk.

—Maybe, she admitted, then smiled–just barely. Thanks for sticking around.

He glanced sideways at her, the exhaustion giving way to something softer, familiar.

—Yeah. Anytime.

She nodded, already moving to grab the door handle when she paused suddenly, then turned back to dig into her bag.

—Wait–almost forgot.

Miles blinked as she pulled out a hardcover book. The Past Is a Wound You Name by Esme Harrington.

—You're kidding, he said, brows lifting as she handed it over.

—Nope. She tapped the cover with a fingertip. Ava asked you to get it signed, remember? You completely forgot. So I borrowed it from your bag, found Esme, and made it happen.

He flipped the cover open, eyes catching the inscription:

Ava —

Thank you for reading with heart. The brave ones always do.

Warmly, Esme Harrington

Miles didn't say anything for a moment. Then, softly:

—Lex...

—You're welcome, she cut in, too tired for sentimentality. Don't get all emotional about it. Just take the win.

Miles shut the book gently, his smile understated but real.

—I owe you one.

—You owe me a dozen, sunshine, she said with a teasing edge. But I'm keeping track.

Then she was gone, boots soft against the sidewalk, keys already in hand as she disappeared up the steps to her building.

TAGLIST: @ginasbaby @nciscmjunkie @thefatobsession @makkaroni221 @certainlychaotic @hi-i-1 @kiwiana145 @kobayashi-fr @alexis042499

#lala’s fic recs *ೃ༄#𓏲 ₊˚๑( jul ‘25 fic recs )໑‧₊˚.ꪆ #olivia benson fic recs

28 notes · View notes

enretrogue · 1 month ago

Text

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 16 • Cracks in the Marble

TAGLIST FORM

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary:

Content Warning: Usual SVU & Violent Crime talk • SA, bruises, mention of a struggle, description of a victim, assault, mention of med support | mention of a sick kid and sickness

A/N: Hello my loves! This chapter is longer than the others. I hope you like it. I'll let you tell me what you think of Esme Harrington!

TUESDAY, MARCH 07

New Jersey— Teterboro Airport

08:45 AM

Alexis knew her way around tarmacs.

She knew the whine of jet engines cutting across the sky, the clipped, purposeful shouts of ground crews moving with a speed that tolerated no mistakes. She knew the cold edge the wind always carried, sharper and more biting than anything back in the city streets just a few miles away. Normally, she'd be in uniform in places like this, boots scuffing concrete stained with fuel and oil, dwarfed by hulking army aircraft.

Today, though, it was Bureau black: tactical, civilian enough to blend in among the polished SUVs and men in discreet earpieces, official enough that no one gave her a second glance as she leaned casually against the government-issued vehicle rumbling quietly behind her.

She shifted her weight from one boot to the other, arms crossed loosely against her chest, the morning chill biting through the sleeves of her blazer. Around her, the private side of the Teterboro Airport moved at its own smooth, expensive pace–sleek town cars idling in neat rows, polished jets waiting like silver knives lined up for inspection. Somewhere else, a security team loaded gear into a Suburban identical to hers.

Alexis dragged her gaze back to the terminal doors.

No sign of Langford yet.

Not that she was worried. Just... impatient. She knew what a night spent with sick kids could do to a household–chaos, negotiations, exhaustion layered so thick it became a second skin. She could practically hear it in her head: the bargaining over juice cups, the failed attempts at soothing stubborn coughs, the sheer bone-deep fatigue that no amount of coffee could quite erase.

She checked her watch, again, tapping the face lightly out of habit.

And then, finally, a familiar figure jogged around the corner from the terminal, backpack thumping against one shoulder. Miles looked exactly like a man who had lived through a small domestic warzone and barely made it out alive. His sleeves were rolled, his shirt slightly wrinkled, hair still damp in spots like he'd shoved his head under a faucet and hoped for the best.

Even from twenty feet away, Alexis could see the stubborn set of his mouth, the dogged determination under the dark smudges beneath his eyes.

She pushed off the SUV as he reached her, sliding a fresh coffee from the roof where she'd set it a few minutes earlier. Wordlessly, she held it out toward him.

—You're out of your damn mind, she said, tone casual as she offered the cup like a peace offering. You could've stayed home. No one would've blamed you.

Miles let out a breathless chuckle, gratefully taking the coffee and cradling it in both hands like it was the last good thing left in the world. He dropped his bag onto the passenger seat with a heavy thump, already pulling out his earpiece, radio, and tactical vest from inside.

—Texted you last night. He fitted the earpiece snugly and checked his radio frequency out of habit. Told you I'd be here. Ava would've killed me if I bailed. She's a huge fan of Ms. Harrington. Wants her book signed.

The brunette arched a brow, arms folding loosely as she leaned her hip against the car, watching him sort through his gear like it was second nature. Her tone was neutral, almost bored, as she asked: "Who?"

Miles froze halfway through clipping his badge to his belt. He turned to stare at her, open-mouthed, like she'd just confessed to never having heard of coffee or gravity.

—You're kidding, right? Alexis! His voice pitched up in disbelief. Esme Harrington. Bestselling author? Women's empowerment icon? She practically lives on the bestseller list. Hell, even my mom knows who she is–and she still thinks email is witchcraft.

For a half-second, Gray let him stew in the horror, keeping her face perfectly blank, like she truly had no idea what he was talking about. But then, just as her friend opened his mouth to keep going, she let the faintest smirk crack the edges of her mouth.

—I read the file. Relax, I'm not about to embarass you in front of your literary idol.

The agent narrowed his eyes at her, catching the glint of teasing under her usual dry delivery.

—You're messing with me, he said, pointing at her like he'd cracked some secret code.

Alexis just shrugged, entirely unrepentant as she grabbed her radio from the trunk.

—Maybe. Maybe not.

Miles gave a low chuckle under his breath, still shaking his head at Alexis's teasing, before finally hauling his backpack properly into the rear of the SUV. He tossed it in with a heavy thud, the tired slap of fabric against metal, and leaned in to double-check that his vest, backup radio, and first aid kit were where they needed to be.

That's when he spotted it–half-tucked into the side pocket of his partner's own battered field backpack. A familiar brown paper bag, the neat, looping logo from Valentina's printed clear as day across the front.

He froze, frowning, a ripple of confusion tightening his features.

Valentina's wasn't just a restaurant anymore–it had quietly become their spot. Their sanctuary after long days chasing down leads and piecing together ugly cases. Dinner after late-night interviews, lunch pick-up during stakeouts, sometimes just coffee to break the monotony of paperwork. Even Ava and Charlie loved the place. It was stitched into the fabric of their routine now, a place that meant comfort and familiarity.

Alexis didn't go to Valentina's alone.

Hell, Alexis barely went to any restaurant alone.

His fingers hovered near the bag as he straightened slowly, like the thing might give him an answer if he stared hard enough.

—Valentina's? he asked, voice pitching up slightly as he gave her a pointed look across the SUV.

Alexis, already adjusting the settings on her radio, didn't even flinch.

—Yeah.

Miles gawked at her like she'd just confessed to robbing a bank.

—You went without me?

—And Ava. Don't forget Ava, she added dryly, tossing him a sidelong glance over her sunglasses.

The brunet clutched his chest in mock agony.

—This feels personal. Deeply personal.

She smirked but said nothing, letting the silence stretch just long enough for him to stew. Then she casually added:

—Wasn't a solo mission.

His mouth opened–and then closed–brow furrowing deeper.

—Wait. Wait. You took someone to Valentina's? Someone new? His brain worked overtime. Then it clicked. His eyes widened. Benson.

The SEAL shrugged, smoothing her white shirt back into her waistband.

—Owed her dinner. Lost a bet. Paid up.

Miles made a strangled sound in his throat, somewhere between a laugh and an outright groan, dragging a hand over his face like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

—You took Olivia Benson to our sacred post-stakeout food temple.

Alexis didn't even blink. She shoved the trunk door closed with a sharp, unbothered motion, ignoring the dramatic tone like it was nothing more than a low-flying mosquito.

In her mind, she hadn't done anything wrong. Monday night had started with a simple game of pool, but one match had turned into three, and before she knew it, she'd lost her first Monday night bet in ages. She hadn't complained. A deal was a deal. And besides, it wasn't a hardship–taking Olivia to Valentina's, sharing good food and easy conversation, it had been... nice. No pressure, no chaos. Just a quiet evening for once.

—Relax, she said dryly, brushing a loose hair from her forehead as she circled around to the driver's side. I didn't desecrate the temple. We didn't even order your sacred double-stack meatball sub.

The man let out a heavy sigh, dramatic as ever, and flopped into the passenger seat.

—You better not have ordered my cheesecake either.

Gray only smirked as she slid behind the wheel and pulled the door shut, the familiar thunk sealing them into the SUV's cocoon of worn leather and faint coffee smell.

—I might've stared at it on the menu. For like... a second.

Miles gasped, hand over his heart like he was wounded.

—Traitor.

The low whine of engines pitched down to a steady idle as the sleek private jet glided across the tarmac, its metallic skin catching the pale March sunlight like a blade. It was the kind of jet that wasn't just built for travel—it was built for spectacle. Polished to a mirror shine, the exterior gleamed with a subtle custom insignia near the cockpit, and behind the open cabin door, Alexis could already imagine the plush cream leather seating, golden fixtures, and mahogany trim.

A flying penthouse for the very rich and very important.

She stayed exactly where she was, the picture of effortless disinterest, leaning her weight back against the hood of the black Bureau SUV. Her arms were crossed loosely over her chest, one boot hooked casually over the other at the ankle, a silent statement of how little she cared about the show of wealth in front of her. If the extravagance of it all was meant to impress, it missed its mark entirely.

The mirrored lenses of her sunglasses masked her eyes, but not entirely. The slight tension in her jaw, the barely-there twitch at the corner of her mouth–it all betrayed her brewing mood. Not nerves, not awe. Just that sharp, slow-burn irritation she reserved for a very specific breed of people: the ones who thought money and relevance were the same thing. The ones who walked through life expecting everyone to orbit around them. She recognized the type easily. After all, she'd grown up in the shadow of it.

Across the tarmac, the private jet finally powered down, the whine of its engines dropping into a steady, mechanical hum. With a hiss of hydraulics, the cabin door folded outward and the stairs unfurled, each movement smooth, deliberate, and absolutely choreographed for maximum effect.

Beside her, Miles suddenly snapped to attention, the way a rookie might when an admiral stepped onto the deck. Alexis caught the motion out of the corner of her eye–saw him catch his reflection in the SUV window, then immediately set about fixing himself with frantic, hurried precision. Tie straightened. Hair smoothed. Jacket tugged into line. He even gave his shoes a quick swipe against the back of his pants leg, as if Esme Harrington might personally inspect the polish.

The brunette didn't move. She stayed slouched against the hood of the SUV, arms loosely crossed, ankles still hooked over the other in a posture that screamed exactly what she felt: unimpressed.

—You look great, sunshine, she said lazily, without even turning her head. Real secret service energy. Maybe she'll knight you or something.

Miles grumbled under his breath, but he kept fussing with the cuff of his jacket. He was determined to make a good impression, even if Alexis thought the whole thing was ridiculous.

The moment stretched, tense but absurd, until a sharp series of clicks echoed across the tarmac–heels striking the metal stairs. Esme Harrington appeared at the top, framed dramatically against the gleaming body of the jet. Gray had to give her credit: the woman knew how to make an entrance.

Late forties, stylish without being flashy, every inch of her screamed curated elegance. Tailored gray coat, slim cigarette trousers, sleek heels that looked more like weapons than footwear. Her honey-blonde hair was styled in soft waves that somehow didn't move in the brisk New Jersey wind. And, of course, the oversized sunglasses–designer, no doubt–shielded her face almost entirely.

Behind her, assistants scrambled like flustered ducklings, wrestling with an absurd collection of designer luggage. Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Hermes–brands Alexis only recognized because Ava had once dragged her through Saks on a dare.

Esme didn't even glance at the chaos behind her. She descended the stairs with slow, deliberate grace, one hand light on the railing, her phone already in the other, thumb tapping briskly across the screen.

—Showtime, Alexis murmured, finally pushing off the hood.

Her partner said nothing. He was too busy standing ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back like he was guarding Buckingham Palace. The brunette strolled forward at a much more human pace, letting her badge flash just enough to make things official.

—Ms. Harrington. Agents Gray and Langford. We'll be handling your security detail.

The woman slid her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, peering over the top with a slow, deliberate sweep of her gaze. She smiled–small, practiced, but undeniably charming–and it softened the chill that had been radiating off her moments ago. Her attention flickered briefly to Miles, who looked like he might salute at any second, before lingering with far more interest on Alexis.

—Well, Esme drawled, voice rich like velvet. I can certainly think of worse company.

The SEAL kept her face impassive, professional. She merely stepped aside and gestured toward the SUV, her body language leaving no room for misinterpretation. Business only. Move along.

Miles, ever the polite one, jogged ahead to open the door for her. Esme rewarded him with a playful smile, tilting her head slightly as she passed.

—Chivalry isn't dead after all. You're adorable. What's your name again?

—Agent Langford, ma'am.

—Agent Langford, the oldest repeated with a wink. I'll try to remember. But don't be too sweet, darling–makes you an easy target.

Alexis bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as she moved to load the luggage into the back. She didn't miss the way Esme's gaze lingered a few seconds too long on her, either. Nor the slight, knowing curve of the woman's mouth as she climbed into the SUV's back seat.

They got on the road a few minutes later, the Bureau vehicle gliding through Teterboro's outer roads toward Manhattan. The ride was quiet for a stretch–just the hum of tires and the occasional click of Miles fiddling nervously with the radio settings before his friend shot him a look that made him stop.

It was Esme who broke the silence.

—So, Agent Gray, she said lightly, her voice floating forward from the backseat like smoke. How long have you been saving damsels in distress?

Alexis adjusted her sunglasses with two fingers, eyes never leaving the road.

—You're not a damsel, ma'am. And you're certainly not in distress.

Behind her, Esme laughed–a low, delighted sound.

—No, she agreed. But if I were, I think I'd rather be rescued by you.

From the passenger seat, Miles nearly choked on his coffee. He coughed once, struggling to recover, eyes wide in disbelief. In all the years he'd known Alexis, he'd seen a lot of people–women and men both–take their short with her. At bars, restaurants, bowling alleys, even once mid-crime scene while standing over a pair of handcuffed suspects. But never had anyone come in quite so bold, so shamelessly direct, like it was a sport.

The youngest, for her part, didn't even flinch. She simply adjusted her grip on the steering wheel and changed lanes with the same dispassionate calm she used when reading case files or dismantling armed suspects. If she was fazed, it didn't show.

Miles gave her a side glance, silently begging her to say something that would reset the universe back to normal.

She obliged–but not the way he hoped.

—I don't do rescues, she said dryly, her voice flat and unimpressed as black coffee left out too long. I'm more of a 'get yourself up and move' kind of person.

Behind them, the author let out another warm chuckle, clearly unfazed by the brusque reply.

—That's even better. I do enjoy a challenge.

The agent dropped his head back against the seat with a barely concealed groan.

—Please. Don't encourage her.

Alexis smirked slightly but said nothing, letting the city skyline pull them into its steel embrace. Traffic thickened, the SUV slipping seamlessly into the controlled chaos of Manhattan morning rush hour. She weaved through it like it was a slow-moving river, her patience deep and unshakable.

Esme crossed her legs elegantly in the backseat, designer heels catching the light, looking perfectly at ease in a city that never paused for anyone.

—So, she said after a beat, voice light but probing. Tell me, Agent Gray... is this what you always do? Escort overworked, overstressed women to fancy galas?

Through the rearview mirror, Alexis caught their guess' reflection–sunglasses now perched atop her head, a sly, assessing smile playing on her mouth.

—No exactly. Usually, I just arrest them.

Miles nearly spilled out his coffee again. Esme, to her credit, laughed like it was the best thing she'd heard all day.

—God, you're fun. I hope you don't behave yourself all night.

Gray said nothing. Just kept driving, her face carved into something close to patience. But the glint behind her sunglasses told a different story–one her best friend knew all too well.

Alexis wasn't annoyed.

She was entertained.

And that, he thought grimly, might be even worse.

TUESDAY, MARCH 07

Manhattan— Four Season Hotel

05:19 PM

The suite at the Four Seasons was obscene in its luxury.

Sprawling across nearly the entire floor, every inch of it dripped with carefully curated opulence. Heavy velvet drapes the color of deep merlot framed the soaring floor-to-ceiling windows, their folds thick enough to drown out the city's constant hum when pulled closed. The carpets beneath Miles' boots were clearly handwoven, intricate patterns winding like rivers across the lush fabric in shades of cream and navy, so plush they muffled even the softest footsteps.

Above, grand chandeliers dangled from the high ceilings, each one a delicate explosion of crystal and gold, throwing fractured shards of light across the polished marble floors whenever the late afternoon sun shifted. The entire room seemed to glow under that golden hour light, the Manhattan skyline stretching out beyond the windows like a living painting–all glass towers and smoky haze, with the last touches of sunlight gilding their edges in molten gold.

It was the kind of space where silence wasn't empty, but heavy–padded with wealth, thick with expectation. A place designed to make you feel small unless you belonged to it.

The agent sat stiffly on the edge of one of the velvet-upholstered armchairs, clearly not belonging but doing his best not to fidget anyway. His jacket was slightly rumpled from a long day trailing after Esme Harrington through boutique after boutique, spa appointments, private salons. A half-finished glass of complimentary champagne sat abandoned on the low table beside him, the bubbles long since gone flat.

He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the high-end furniture around him like one wrong move might trigger a silent alarm, and rested his forearms on his knees.

Somewhere in the background, the faint clatter of hairdryers and makeup brushes echoed like distant applause, a steady rhythm to the whirlwind of activity surrounding the author. Stylists and assistants swirled around her in a practiced ballet, each one armed with tools of their trade–hairspray cans, palettes of shimmering powders, garment bags in muted jewel tones.

Esme sat at the center of it all like a queen in the middle of a particularly glamorous war camp, utterly unfazed by the chaos orbiting her. She lounged in a silk robe the color of crushed pearls, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, idly sipping from her second–or maybe third–glass of champagne. Her hair was half-styled into loose, sculpted waves, and a makeup artist hovered nearby, fussing over the delicate sheen of highlighter along her cheekbones.

Miles kept his head down, pulling out his phone for the third time only to check the clock. 5:19 PM. Still at least another hour before they had to leave for the gala. He sighed quietly, setting the phone back into his jacket pocket. He was used to moving, reacting, doing. Sitting still in a five-star hotel suite while watching a woman get ready with the efficiency of a small army wasn't exactly in his wheelhouse.

—You're very... dutiful, Esme drawled after a moment, her voice carrying easily over the hum of blow dryers and muted chatter. One perfectly manicured hand gestured lazily toward him. So upright. So professional. She tilted her head slightly, the corner of her mouth tugging into a half-smirk. Tell me, Agent Langford—do you practice looking that serious in the mirror every morning?

The man coughed lightly, the tips of his ears turning a shade redder than he would have liked.

—Just doing my job, ma'am.

Esme chuckled–a low, amused sound that had more than a little bite to it.

—You truly are adorable. Married, too, right? Ten years, you said?

—Uh–yes, ma'am.

The amused glint in her eye only deepened.

—Pity, she said lightly, fastening some earrings without missing a beat. The good ones always are.

Before Miles could come up with any sort of dignified response to that, a flicker of movement caught Esme's attention.

Across the room, Alexis reappeared. She crossed from the inner suite to the outer sitting area, phone still pressed against her ear. Her expression was tight, all business, the slight furrow between her brows signaling she was fielding another update on security logistics. Dressed down in a crisp white shirt tucked into black pants, she looked sharp and ready, the kind of alert that never quite turned off.

The woman's gaze tracked her movements openly, an amused gleam flickering to life in her eyes as she watched the agent pace by the windows, the city sprawled in glittering sprawl behind her. She set down her champagne glass with deliberate slowness, her attention no longer on her own reflection, but entirely on the woman moving with sharp, contained energy just a few feet away.

—She's very serious, she remarked aloud, almost idly, but her tone was a shade too interested to pass for casual.

Langford smiled faintly, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he followed Esme's line of sight.

—Yeah. Former SEAL. Still moves like it, too.

That earned him a low, appreciative hum from the author.

—A SEAL? she echoed, turning her head slightly for the stylist to adjust a dangling earring. Now that explains the shoulders... and the attitude.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.

—Yeah, well. She's the best there is. I'd trust her with my life.

Esme's lips curved slowly, thoughtfully, as she watched Alexis move with the easy, unconscious vigilance that came from a lifetime of dangerous habits. She was intrigued, and it wasn't a passing curiosity the way it might have been with anyone else fluttering around the gala preparations. No, this was something sharper, more deliberate, like a cat spotting a particularly interesting mouse.

—Such discipline, she mused, half to herself, as her stylist finished with a final spritz of hairspray and stepped back, satisfied. The blonde barely noticed. Her attention was locked on the agent now, studying the casual efficiency, the way Alexis seemed to breathe in the space and bend it to her presence without ever demanding it. It's rare. Rare... and very, very fun.

Miles gave a quiet snort under his breath and stood as his partner approached, straightening his jacket again out of habit. He had seen that look before–Esme Harrington had found a new game. And unfortunately for Alexis, she was exactly the woman's type: strong, serious, entirely unimpressed by wealth or status.

—Don't say I didn't warn you.

Harrington barely spared the agent a glance as he muttered the warning, her attention far too engaged elsewhere. She watched Alexis with the casual hunger of someone well-accustomed to getting what they wanted–eventually. Not with desperation, not with urgency–but with that dangerous patience of the very rich and very confident.

Only once the brunette had moved out of immediate earshot, barking orders into her comms as she scanned their upcoming route, did Esme lean in, voice lowering to a conspiratorial murmur meant for Miles alone.

—You look worried, Agent Langford, she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her perfectly glossed mouth. You can relax.

Miles arched a skeptical brow, arms folding across his chest as he shifted his weight onto one foot.

—Not sure I can, ma'am. You're looking at my partner like she's a rare steak and you haven't eaten all week.

That earned him a low, amused laugh–rich and unbothered–as she plucked her clutch from a nearby side table and idly smoothed the silk of her gown.

—Oh, don't be so dramatic, the blonde drawled, sliding her sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose with delicate, languid grace. I'm not planning to marry her.

She glanced sidelong at Miles, lips curving in a wicked, knowing grin.

—But if she were to offer me a night–or two. I'd hardly be the fool to say no.

The man stared at her for a beat, caught between horror and a reluctant, almost impressed kind of amusement. In years of Bureau work–and in years of watching hopeless admirers crash and burn trying to flirt with Alexis Gray–he had never encountered someone quite this... unbothered by the odds.

—You've got guts.

Esme smiled wider, unrepentant.

—Guts, darling, and excellent taste.

TUESDAY, MARCH 07

Manhattan— Charity Gala

08:36 PM

The ballroom was a glittering sea of wealth and self-importance, dressed up in velvet, silk, and ambition. Crystal chandeliers, each larger than a small car, spilled molten gold light down onto the polished marble floors, turning every step into a muted shimmer. Massive arrangements of white orchids and deep red roses adorned every table, their scent heavy in the air, mixing with the sharpness of expensive perfume and the faint tang of champagne.

A string quartet played in the far corner, perched on a low dais, their music elegant but utterly forgettable–a lilting background hum no one truly listened to, just another piece of the set dressing. Waiters in sharp black tie floated through the crowd like well-trained ghosts, balancing silver trays laden with champagne flutes, oysters on crushed ice, caviar-topped blinis, and hors d'oeuvres so meticulously crafted they looked more like fine jewelry than actual food. No one really ate them, of course–they were props, just like the artfully staged conversations and polished laughter that filled the cavernous room.

Floor-to-ceiling windows lined one side of the ballroom, offering a dazzling view of the Manhattan skyline, where the city's towers stood like silent sentinels under the night sky. From this height, the city lights twinkled like stars fallen to earth, cold and unreachable.

Everything about the room was designed to impress–to remind everyone inside that they were not just attending a charity gala; they were part of an elite club, a place where the world bent for the right names and the right money.

Alexis stood near one of the towering columns flanking the ballroom entrance, her posture loose but her gaze sharp, sweeping the room in steady intervals. She wore the mandatory black suit and earpiece of federal presence, blending into the periphery where security was expected to linger without drawing attention. Even so, she seemed to cut through the glittering crowd like a blade, too grounded, too real for a room designed around illusion.

Miles stood a few feet away, sipping from a glass of sparkling water he barely tasted, his eyes never staying far from their principal. Esme Harrington, draped in a dark green gown that shimmered every time she turned under the chandeliers, moved easily through the gathering like she owned it–or at least rented it for the night. She laughed, she posed for photos, she signed programs and cocktails napkins with the same dazzling, easy charm.

And every so often, she let her gaze drift unmistakably back toward the brunette SEAL.

It had started almost immediately upon arrival. A glance across her shoulder, a playful curve to her smile, a tilt of her head that sent diamond earrings catching the light. The way her fingers brushed the stem of her wine glass was less about drinking and more about demonstrating.

Gray, for her part, looked profoundly unimpressed. She kept her arms folded loosely over her chest, weight balanced on the balls of her feet, every inch the trained operative who had once mapped battlefields in a glance.

After about the sixth or seventh lingering look Esme threw her way, she shifted slightly closer to her partner, lowering her voice just enough for him to hear over the music.

—Kill me, she muttered dryly, scanning the exits again. I'm losing brain cells by the second.

Miles bit back a laugh, setting his glass down on a nearby tray.

—You're the one who wanted fieldwork.

—Yeah, fieldwork. Not babysitting the Upper East Side's most glamorous social parade.

The man gave a short, helpless chuckle–and that, of course, drew Esme's attention again. She made her way back toward them with the leisurely grace of someone who had never rushed for anything in her life. As she passed, her fingertips lightly grazed Alexis's elbow, a touch so brief it could have been an accident, but they all knew better.

Miles stiffened, his instinct to shield flashing for a heartbeat before common sense caught up. When the blonde leaned in to speak, her voice was low and playful.

—You should teach her how to smile, she said to him, tilting her head toward the other agent, her eyes bright with mischief. It's a shame to waste such a face like that on brooding.

—Maybe you should stop undressing her with your eyes.

Harrington only laughed–a rich, delighted sound–and sipped her wine with theatrical innocence.

—Oh, sweetheart. I'd much rather have her undress me, she said with a wink that was both shameless and effortlessly charming. But it's sweet that you care.

Miles stiffened slightly, watching with a sharpened edge of instinct as Esme casually slipped her hand through Alexis's arm, steering the agent away from the glittering center of the ballroom. His body reacted before his brain could reason–old habits of protection, of loyalty–but he caught himself with a low breath. Alexis didn't need rescuing. She never had.

Still, he shifted position, moving subtly toward the mouth of the corridor. Not close enough to make it obvious, but near enough that if something happened��anything at all–he could be there in a second.

From a distance, it looked innocuous. A wealthy patron leading her assigned security into a private conversation. Harmless.

In the hallway, the blonde slowed her steps the moment the heavy noise of the gala dropped away. The air was cooler here, quieter, broken only by the soft hiss of distant vents and the muffled thud of their steps on expensive carpet. Light spilled down from ornate sconces, warm and golden, throwing long shadows across the hallway's rich paneling and catching the subtle shimmer woven through the author's evening gown.

Alexis let it happen only long enough to keep the encounter from looking suspicious. Then, with a careful and almost effortless motion, she disengaged–peeling herself free with a polite step back, reclaiming her personal space without a word.

Esme turned to face her fully, her smile languid, amused. She cradled her glass of wine loosely, swirling the red liquid lazily with an absent grace, her eyes drifting up and down the young woman without the slightest apology.

—I'm flattered, really, Alexis said, her voice low and precise, her professionalism cutting clean through the space between them. But I'm not interested.

The author chuckled softly, the sound rich with genuine amusement rather than offense. She had spent the entire day watching this young agent: the careful courtesy, the underlying sharpness, the distance she maintained without ever appearing rude. Esme wasn't easily discouraged, but she wasn't foolish either. She recognized a closed door when she saw one–and more importantly, she understood that the reason behind it ran deeper than simple disinterest.

There was something else tucked behind those steady green eyes. Something private. Something spoken in the way Alexis kept herself apart, even here among the glittering noise of the elite.

Esme lifted her glass slightly in a mock toast.

—I figured as much, she said lightly. Her gaze softened just a touch, a flicker of rare sincerity peeking through her usual mischief. But it was worth the compliment. You carry a storm with you, Agent. Some people spend their whole lives trying to fake that.

Gray offered nothing in return but the barest nod of acknowledgement, an unspoken thanks, before tilting her head toward the hallway ahead.

—You still needed the bathroom?

The blonde smiled again, a little more genuinely this time, and gestured grandly ahead.

—Lead the way, soldier.

They moved down the plush, silent corridor, their footsteps muffled by thick carpeting. The farther they got from the ballroom, the quieter the world became, the music and laughter falling away like mist. The nearest powder room was tucked around a corner, hidden behind a gilded double door.

Esme reached for the door handle but froze halfway, her body stiffening with a sudden, instinctive wariness.

The commander moved instantly. The years of training, the ingrained vigilance, kicked in without thought. She brushed past the oldest with a firm but silent urgency, pushing the door open first and stepping inside.

The sight that met her made her chest tighten.

A woman lay crumpled on the immaculate marble floor, her glamorous evening gown torn at the shoulder, the fine fabric stained and wrinkled. Makeup streaked her face in ghostly smears, and across her exposed skin, ugly bruises were already beginning to bloom. One of her high heels dangled broken from her foot, the other lying a few feet away like it had been kicked off in a struggle.

Alexis was beside her in a heartbeat, dropping to one knee. Her fingers found the woman's pulse–a thread of life, weak but present. The shallow rise and fall of her chest was barely noticeable.

Calm settled over her like a second skin. She raised her wrist to her mouth, activating her comms.

—Miles, I need you at the ladies' powder room. Now, she said, her voice a low, precise command. Possible assault victim. Alive but barely responsive. Bring med support. And call Olivia.

The faint hiss of static answered her, followed by her partner's immediate reply: On it.

Behind her, Esme stood frozen in the doorway, her earlier flirtation and mischief gone, replaced by a stark, stricken expression. She clutched her glass of wine against her chest like a shield, her knuckles white around the delicate stem.

Alexis didn't spare her another glance. Her world had narrowed to the woman on the floor, to the shallow breaths and bruised skin, to the hard, cold fact that something terrible had happened here, right under all their noses.

The music from the ballroom seemed far away now, a hollow, glittering lie.

And Gray, former SEAL and agent to the bone, was already piecing together what needed to happen next.

The gala wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

TAGLIST: @nciscmjunkie @thefatobsession @makkaroni221 @ginasbaby @certainlychaotic @hi-i-1 @kiwiana145 @kobayashi-fr

#lala’s fic recs *ೃ༄#𓏲 ₊˚๑( jul ‘25 fic recs )໑‧₊˚.ꪆ #olivia benson fic recs

26 notes · View notes

enretrogue · 1 month ago

Text

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 15 • Born This Way

TAGLIST FORM

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary: Based on S18, Episode 13 of Law and Order SVU. Olivia’s past creeps on her after case. She calls Alexis.

Content Warning: HEAVY CHAPTER | Please tell me if I forgot anything. | Usual SVU & Violent Crime talk • SA, use of the word r*pe and pr*dator, IT being a DNA thing, suicide, thinking about dying, violence, being born of a r*pe | Mention of kids having to use weapons and being turned into killers, weapons, corpses

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20

Manhattan —Forlini's Bar

07:46 PM

There's no such thing as a rape gene.

No genetic marker buried in the double helix, waiting to bloom into violence. It wasn't inherited like eye color or dimples, not quietly passed down through generations like a family trait. You wouldn't find it etched into bone marrow or curled up in the twist of DNA, nestled beside the genes for height or the way someone laughs when they're nervous. It didn't whisper through the bloodstream, didn't echo in the pulse.

No one was born a predator.

At least, that's what the doctors had always said.

But Will Stein had grown up believing otherwise.

He'd spent long hours in cold rooms and folding chairs beside the men of Our Church of the Holy Savior–men who spoke in hushed tones about sins they hadn't committed and guilt they could never shake. They called themselves survivors, but their stories sounded like confessions, as if surviving made them complicit. They talked about the darkness they feared lived inside them, passed down like inheritance, as though the blood in their veins carried the same rot that once destroyed them.

Will had soaked it all in. The idea that he was born tainted, that whatever had been done to him would one day become something he did to someone else. That pain, like sickness, was catching.

It was the kind of belief that burrowed deep, the kind that didn't flinch in the face of logic.

He had been ready to take his own life–just as Olivia had been, more times than she could count. Maybe not always standing on a literal ledge, but in the silence between sirens, in the long stretches of night when the job went home with her and refused to leave. When the weight of all she'd seen, all she'd survived, pressed so tightly against her ribs it felt like her own heart might give out just to make it stop.

Over the years, she had managed to stitch herself together piece by piece. Therapy. Noah. The job, even at its worst, giving her a reason to stay standing. But peace didn't come all at once. It came in fragments. It came with costs. And even now, after everything, the darkness still knew where to find her–slipping in under doorways, curling into the spaces between memories and regrets.

Most nights, she could hold it off. Keep it at bay with routine, with purpose. But some nights–like this one–it slipped through the cracks. And it whispered in a voice that sounded a little too much like her mother's: You were born from violence. You'll never be clean.

Forlini's had become her quiet corner of the world, a place where the hum of the city softened just enough for her to catch her breath. The lights were dim, casting gentle shadows that pooled in the corners and settled over her like a familiar weight.

Olivia sat tucked into the booth by the window, her back to the wall, her eyes unfocused as they drifted somewhere past the rim of her glass. She'd been there almost an hour. Long enough for the ice in her drink to melt halfway down, long enough for her to stop pretending she was just waiting for someone and admit to herself she just needed to sit still.

She didn't reach for her phone. Didn't check the time. The only movement came from the soft clink of melting ice shifting in her glass, a quiet rhythm that had started to feel like her own pulse. Around her, the murmur of voices and the faint scrape of chairs moved like water–constant but never touching her.

Her gaze caught on the window, the reflection there. She barely recognized the woman staring back. Tired. Drawn. The kind of exhaustion that didn't come from one day, but years–years of chasing monsters and wondering if one of them had lived inside her from the start.

Days like today always dredged that fear back up. The kind that burrowed into her ribs and whispered truths she didn't want to believe. That she was her father's daughter. That no matter how many victims she saved, she'd never outrun the shadow of where she came from.

The door opened behind her, but she didn't look back–didn't have to. She knew the rhythm of those boots against the worn floor, the way they slowed just before the threshold like the weight of whatever was waiting inside called for a breath first. Alexis Gray always walked like she had somewhere to be, but tonight she moved like she was exactly where she needed to.

Olivia's eyes stayed on the glass in front of her, the way the ice had melted just enough to blur the whiskey's edge. She didn't speak as the bench across from her gave a soft creak, didn't flinch when the brunette slid into the seat without a word. The silence was thick but not uncomfortable, a kind of quiet only earned by people who had already said all the important things once before.

—I'm sorry for ruining your evening.

The agent didn't answer right away. She leaned back, the leather of the booth sighing beneath her weight, and shrugged like the apology didn't carry the weight Olivia thought it did.

—You didn't ruin anything. You called. I came. That's the deal.

The oldest's lips pressed together, her eyes still fixed on the drink. The edges of her reflection shimmered in the glass, fractured by melted ice and everything she hadn't said yet. She nodded, once, barely, like it cost her something.

—It was a bad day.

—I figured.

There was something about Alexis' presence that reminded Olivia of a fire steady in a storm–warm, constant, never asking for more than what you could give. And tonight, that was exactly what the lieutenant needed. No questions. No therapy talk. Just someone who understood that some nights were about enduring.

—One of my witnesses tried to jump today, she said, her voice almost swallowed by the clink of ice in her glass. He thought there was something rotten in him. Like a sickness. Like darkness passed down from his father–something he couldn't cut out, couldn't outrun.

Gray didn't speak. She didn't have to. She leaned in, forearms on the table, her full attention fixed on Olivia. No judgment, no urging–just presence. The kind that asked for nothing but gave room to breathe.

Olivia didn't meet her eyes. Not yet.

—I told him he wasn't his father. That he could be more. That he already was. And I meant it. God, I meant it.

A pause. Her fingers tightened slightly around the base of her glass.

—But I got home and looked in the mirror, and all I could think was–what if I'm wrong? What if I've been wrong about myself the whole time? About what's still in me?

Alexis's brow drew in, subtle but attentive. She didn't rush to fill the silence, didn't speak just to soothe. Instead, she reached across the table, slow and deliberate, laying her hand over Olivia's. Her grip was firm but gentle, her thumb continuing its slow, grounding rhythm over the woman's knuckles. The gesture wasn't loud, but it was steady–reassuring without expectation.

Olivia let her eyes rest there, at their joined hands, before she spoke again.

—You don't know this part.

The words felt like rusted hinges swinging open.

—My father... he raped my mother. That's how I was born.

She didn't look up, couldn't.

—She told me when I was a teenager. And she hated me for it. For looking like him. For being him, in her eyes. Every time I made a mistake, every time I raised my voice or got angry–she'd throw it in my face. Like I was just waiting to become him.

Her voice didn't shake. It was too tired for that. But it scraped raw against her throat.

Alexis didn't let go. If anything, her hand settled more firmly over Olivia's. Her other hand came up, slow, like she was handling something sacred, and brushed a loose strand of hair back behind the brunette's ear before settling on the table again.

Benson finally glanced up.

—I'm telling you this because I need you to know. That when I looked at that kid today–Will Stein–I didn't just see a witness. I saw myself. I saw someone holding on by a thread, scared that what made them might be what breaks them.

The words settled like dust in the low hum of the bar, fragile and final. For a moment, neither woman spoke. From the television above the counter came the tinny call of a field hockey announcer, a few patrons burst into laughter by the dartboard, and somewhere near the back, a glass hit the floor and shattered. But none of it touched their table.

The agent sat with her fingers still wrapped around Olivia's hand, thumb moving in slow, grounding strokes. She'd known something was off the second she read the text–Can you meet? No punctuation, no explanation. But she hadn't expected this. She hadn't expected her friend to lower her walls so completely, not after everything she'd built to keep them up.

Still, Alexis didn't flinch. Didn't offer pity. Just leaned forward a little more, her voice quiet and steady.

—You know... I've been to places where kids carried rifles taller than they were. Places where boys barely out of childhood were forced to choose between becoming killers or becoming corpses. And even then–even then–none of them were born monsters. They were scared. Trained. Broken. Not made by biology, but by circumstance.

She paused, eyes steady on Olivia's, voice roughening just slightly.

—I've seen men take those same kids and twist them. Turn them into weapons. And you know the truth? ose kids just wanted to play soccer. Or learn baseball. Some of them tried. They'd ask us–ask me–to teach them. That instinct, the one to be good, to belong, it doesn't get passed down in blood, but it is in us. All of us.

The lieutenant looked down at the table, eyes glassy. She didn't speak, but she didn't need to. Alexis could see it–how hard it was for her to hold both things at once: the weight of her past, and the truth that it didn't define her.

Gray pressed on, her voice softer now, not lecturing–offering.

—And it wasn't just overseas. Sometimes, it was worse here. Wearing a badge, chasing the kind of cruelty that wears a suit, or hides in churches, or walks into courtrooms with a smirk. I've stared down monsters, Olivia. So have you. But I've never once believed they were born that way. Not once.

Olivia swallowed hard, the motion barely noticeable, but it cut through the silence like a stone dropped into deep water. Her throat felt tight, like the words she hadn't spoken yet were still lodged there, sharp-edged and waiting. She blinked once, slowly–long enough that Alexis could see the shimmer behind her lashes, the kind that came from effort, not accident.

She looked down at their hands, still joined across the table. Alexis hadn't let go. That alone did something to her. Something she didn't have language for. It was grounding, and steady, and–God help her–safe. And Olivia Benson hadn't felt safe in days. Maybe longer

—What if it's still in me?

The youngest didn't answer immediately. She knew, in her own way, how difficult it could be to escape the ghosts that shaped you. Some of them wore names. Others wore faces. But most just lingered–like fog at the edge of memory, heavy and impossible to shake.

—Then I'm looking at a hell of a lot of kindness and strength for someone carrying that kind of darkness.

She saw the words settle–not all the way, not deep enough to chase out the ache–but just enough to quiet the storm behind Olivia's eyes. Enough to slow the spin of doubt, to bring her breath back from the edge.

—People like to talk about darkness like it's something that stains you. Like once it touches you, it's all you'll ever be. But it doesn't work like that. It's not permanent. Not destiny. It's weight. And some of us just... carry more than others.

Alexis took a breath, not looking away.

—You want to know what's in you? I've seen it, Liv. I've seen the way you fight for people who don't even know your name. The way you show up when the job breaks everyone else. The way victims look at you like you're the only thing keeping them above water. She let that sit for a moment before adding, softly: There's a lot of things in you. But whatever darkness your father left behind? It lost. A long time ago.

Olivia didn't answer at first. Her throat tightened around the words she wasn't sure how to say–too many years of swallowing the ache, too many nights spent convincing herself that the way she carried it made her strong. But hearing it from someone like Alexis, someone who'd seen her bloodied by the job and still standing, it chipped something loose in her. Not all the way, but enough.

Her gaze dropped again to their hands. The brunette's grip hadn't faltered–not for a second, not once.

—You really believe that?

Alexis nodded once, unwavering.

—Yeah. I do. I've been in enough war zones to know what real damage looks like, Liv. And I've seen what survives it. You didn't just survive—you came out the other side and built something better. You lead with compassion, not fear. That's not weakness. That's proof.

Benson let out a breath that felt deeper than it should've been. Her hand turned slightly beneath Alexis's, curling fingers around hers, like the act of holding on was the only answer she could give.

And maybe it was.

—Thank you.

The SEAL offered a smile. She didn't say 'anytime'. Her thumb brushed once more over the back of Olivia's hand before she leaned back slightly, the corner of her mouth tugging into something that wasn't quite a smile–but it was close.

—Alright, enough soul-baring for one night, she said, tone lighter now, gentler. Her fingers finally slipped away, but not abruptly. She drummed them once on the edge of the table. How about a drink I'll regret tomorrow and a round of darts? Or pool. I feel like tonight's a pool table kind of night.

The other brunette huffed something that might've been a laugh, or at least the ghost of one. She looked at her friend, really looked at her for the first time since she walked in–saw not just strength, but the ease she brought into even the hardest spaces.

—You trying to hustle me, Agent Gray?

Alexis leaned back into the booth, hands lifted in mock surrender, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. The gesture was easy, playful–but beneath it, there was a quiet fatigue she hadn't voiced. Her day hadn't exactly been gentle either. The metallic sting of blood still lingered faintly in her senses, her body wired from hours behind the wheel, navigating crime scenes and callouts.

Cruelty had left its fingerprints all over her Monday.

But when Olivia texted, she didn't hesitate. She didn't swing by a diner or pause to decompress in the silence of her apartment. She came here. And instead of waving over a waitress or ordering a drink for herself, she sat. Listened. Gave her friend something no badge or title could buy: presence.

—I would never. I just figured you could use a win. Even if I have to let you have it.

Olivia's eyes lifted, slow and tired, but they held onto the spark of something softer. Whatever had curled itself around her–grief, shame, the echo of Will Stein's voice on that rooftop–still clung to her ribs like it had moved in for good. But the youngest's teasing cut through the static. Just enough to reach her.

—You didn't have to come, she murmured, voice low, edged with something that might've been gratitude or guilt.

The brunette gave a quiet shrug, like it was the easiest decision in the world.

—Didn't have to. Wanted to.

She leaned to grab her jacket from the booth beside her, not to leave but to reset the tone, to shake off the heaviness still lingering. A small movement, a quiet offer of momentum.

—So, what's it gonna be? Darts? Pool? Or are we just sitting here pretending we're too old for both?

Olivia didn't answer right away. She stared at her drink for a beat longer, then slid out of the booth, one hand brushing the tabletop like she was making sure the ground was still there beneath her.

—Pool, she said. Her voice steadier now. But if I win, dinner's on you next time.

Gray was already halfway to the bar, digging a few bills from her pocket with a grin.

—You're on? But I should warn you–I've got a streak going. Haven't lost a Monday night game since... ever.

—Well, there's a first time for everything.

TAGLIST: @nciscmjunkie @thefatobsession @makkaroni221 @ginasbaby @certainlychaotic @hi-i-1 @kiwiana145 @kobayashi-fr

#lala’s fic recs *ೃ༄#𓏲 ₊˚๑( jul ‘25 fic recs )໑‧₊˚.ꪆ #olivia benson fic recs

20 notes · View notes

enretrogue · 1 month ago

Text

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 14 • The Space Between

TAGLIST FORM

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary: Based on Episode 15, Season 18 of L&O SVU

Content Warning: Usual SVU & Violent Crime talk • SA, mention of the serial from episode 15-season 18, victims, bodies | Barba being pulled off the case |

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 14

Midtown Manhattan

04:57 PM

Valentine's Day was a scam–and Alexis Gray knew better than to fall for it.

The city had a way of dressing itself up like it believed in something. Heart-shaped wreaths in the windows of bakeries, discount chocolate towers stacked beside checkout counters, couples weaving through crosswalks with bouquets clutched to their coats and dinner reservations on their minds. Everything looked soft-edged and sweet if you didn't know any better.

Alexis did.

She sat behind the wheel of her SUV, parked just outside a corner shop in Midtown, watching through the windshield as Miles disappeared inside. The heater hummed low, keeping the cabin warm, but she still hadn't taken her coat off. Her fingers drummed lightly against the steering wheel—restless in that way they got when the quiet stretched too long.

Miles had insisted he wouldn't take more than ten minutes.

That had been fifteen ago.

Still, she wasn't annoyed. She'd offered to take Charlie for the night so he and Ava could have a few hours of peace–the kind without cartoons, applesauce negotiations, or a tiny human marching around the living room in fairy wings and demanding everyone refer to her as 'Commander Sparkle.' Alexis had meant it when she said yes. No second thoughts. The little girl was sharp and fearless and made her auntie laugh in a way almost nothing else did these days.

But as she sat there in the middle of a pink-wrapped city, she couldn't help but wonder if she'd ever be the one on the other side of this kind of day. Not that she needed it. She didn't. She never had. But a small voice somewhere in the back of her mind wondered what it might feel like–just once–to walk into a store and debate between red roses or white tulips. To buy two sets of takeout instead of one. To be expected.

The passenger door opened before the thought could dig deeper.

Miles climbed in with his arms full–gift bags, a bottle of wine, something heart-shaped and ridiculous in foil wrapping. A bottle of apple juice poked out of the top of one paper bag, and Alexis caught the glint of glittery stickers in another. Essentials, clearly.

—Forget anything?

Miles grinned, shaking the snow from his hair.

—Only my sanity.

He set the bags on the floor between them, then reached into one of them without ceremony and pulled out a small, wrapped bundle. Tulips. Pale yellow, still closed tight like they weren't ready to admit it was spring.

—These are for you.

Alexis blinked, eyes narrowing.

—Why?

—Because you're saving my ass tonight, he said, like it was obvious. And because someone should buy you flowers.

She took them without a word, her thumb brushing the edge of the wrapping paper. The stems were damp and a little uneven, and the whole thing was so simple it knocked something loose in her chest.

—Thanks, she said after a beat, her voice lower than usual.

—Don't thank me yet.

He clicked the seatbelt into place with a soft snap, then shifted to face her a little more, already rustling through the paper bags resting between them. His tone was half exasperated, half fond–like a man who'd long since surrendered to the chaos of fatherhood.

—Fair warning: Charlie's in a glitter phase. Proceed at your own risk.

Alexis gave a small huff of amusement, eyes still on the road ahead as she eased the SUV back into gear.

—You say that like glitter isn't one of the top five threats to national security.

Miles snorted, pulling out a heart-shaped box covered in pink foil and setting it gently aside before digging deeper into the bag.

—You joke, but I'm still finding it in my boots. From last month.

The brunette shook her head, a smile tugging at her mouth despite herself. Her fingers shifted around the steering wheel, just enough to feel the texture of the tulip stems wrapped in paper beside her.

—If she spills it on my couch, you're buying me a new one.

—Deal. But only if you promise not to do that Navy SEAL death glare at her.

She gave him a dry glance.

—I don't glare at kids.

Miles didn't even try to hide his smirk.

—You don't smile at them, either.

—That's because most of them are sticky.

He laughed then, the kind of full, quiet laugh that came easy between them. Familiar. Safe.

Outside the windows, the city moved past in shades of gray and red and soft blush. Streetlights blinking through the slush, couples wrapped in scarves and one another, a florist cart with its last few roses being handed off to a teenager who looked too nervous to walk fast.

Alexis's gaze lingered on the flowers a beat too long–pink and red and wrapped in that thin crinkly plastic, a little too cheerful for someone who claimed to be above the whole holiday. She didn't say anything, just rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes briefly distant.

Her partner didn't miss it. Of course he didn't. He reached back into one of the bags, tucking something under his arm before settling in his seat, but his voice shifted–gentler, quieter in that way he only ever used when something mattered.

—You okay?

She didn't answer right away. Just adjusted her grip on the wheel and gave a small nod, eyes back on the windshield like they might find a distraction out there.

—Yeah. I'm good.

And she was. Mostly. The ache that had settled into her bones these past few months–the kind that came from silence, from goodbyes never said, from things she didn't let herself want–wasn't as sharp tonight. Still there, but dulled at the edges.

Miles glanced over, not pushing, just watching. They knew each other too well for bullshit.

—You know, I used to think Ava was a little over-the-top about Valentine's Day. Candles, playlists, themed desserts... all of it.

He paused, his smile faint but warm.

—Now I kind of love it. Watching her be happy. It's stupid and sweet and... easy. And I want that for you too, Lex.

Alexis huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head.

—I don't do themed desserts, Langford.

—No, but you do quiet loyalty. Late-night pizza runs. Holding the line when no one else can. Someone out there's gonna think that's the best damn thing in the world.

She didn't say anything. Not right away. Her fingers curled tighter around the wheel. Miles waited a beat, then added, lightly but not without meaning:

—That lieutenant's got pretty good taste in pizza, from what I've heard.

Gray didn't answer, not in words. Just kept her eyes forward, the traffic lights ahead painting soft red shadows across the dash. Her jaw tightened for half a second, then loosened again, like she was working through a thought she wasn't quite ready to hand over.

The brunet didn't push–he knew better. But silence, with Alexis, had always been a language of its own. And this one? This one felt more like a pause than a wall.

Eventually, she exhaled through her nose, a quiet sound that wasn't quite a laugh, but close.

—She's got good instincts, too. And her kid read the whole menu like a case file.

That pulled a real grin from Miles, the kind that settled into the corners of his eyes.

—You're sure you didn't train him at Quantico?

He tossed a glance her way, teasing, but there was a warmth underneath it–a knowingness that came from years of watching her carry other people's weight like it was just part of the uniform. She gave a quiet huff of a laugh, her grip loosening slightly on the wheel.

—If I did, he skipped the recon briefing. Just made his move–slid under the table and popped up next to me like it was a calculated op. No hesitation, total confidence.

Miles let out a low laugh, one hand running through his hair as he leaned further back in his seat.

—That's Charlie's style too. No hesitation. No clearance. Just pure instinct and chaos.

Alexis smirked, her gaze still on the road but softer now, the lines around her eyes easing.

—He brought the elephant with him. Like backup.

That gave him pause. He glanced over, this time with a more deliberate look–curious, maybe even a little probing.

—Sounds like he felt comfortable. Trusted you.

That hung in the air a moment–light on the surface, but not without weight. Alexis didn't respond right away, just shifted her grip on the wheel again, thumb brushing over a worn spot in the leather. She wasn't good at taking credit for things like that. Being trusted, being wanted near. But it lingered in her chest all the same.

Miles didn't let the silence sit too long.

—You ever think about it? You know... maybe wanting that. The whole... elephant-in-a-booth thing?

She gave him a look, amused but wary.

—You mean parenthood? Or just being attacked by small children in public?

He smiled, but his voice came back more serious.

—I mean someone to come home to. Someone who climbs into your booth without asking and just... stays.

Her lips parted, but the answer didn't come quickly. She looked back out the windshield, brows pulling slightly as if the thought had crept in and made itself too comfortable.

—Sometimes. Lately, maybe more than sometimes.

Miles gave a slow nod, not surprised. He glanced out his own window before adding casually,

—Olivia seems like someone who doesn't flinch at chaos. Or elephants.

That earned a slow, sideways glance from Alexis.

—Subtle.

—I try.

He shrugged, but the grin that tugged at the corner of his mouth said he was proud of himself. Alexis exhaled through her nose, a quiet laugh tucked somewhere in the sound.

—It's not that simple.

—It never is. But if it was, would you want it?

Her fingers drummed against the wheel, thoughtful now, the quiet stretching between them again–but this time, it wasn't heavy. Just... honest.

—Yeah. I think I would.

Miles smiled softly, then reached over to give her arm a quick squeeze before grabbing the bags.

—Then maybe it's time to stop dodging elephants.

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 14

Manhattan — NY County Courthouse

05:15 PM

Olivia first walked through the doors of the NY County Courthouse back when she was still wearing the shield on her chest and the weight of proving herself in her stride. The building hadn't changed much since then–still cold in winter, still echoing with footsteps that never quite stopped, still stained with the quiet desperation of people hoping for justice.

Now, years later, she moved past the marble columns with a steadier presence, her coat tugged tight against the February chill, her eyes scanning the steps like muscle memory. Beside her, Rafael Barba matched her pace, gloved hand wrapped around his leather briefcase, silence stretching comfortably between them.

It was the kind of quiet forged in the fire of shared battles–long, tangled, marked by courtrooms and crisis, late-night strategy sessions and the kind of trust you didn't find often in their line of work. Somehow, against the odds, it had lasted. Still intact. Still standing.

Rafael walked beside her, his steps careful but not hesitant, hands deep in the pockets of his coat, scarf tucked just so. The wind curled around them as they moved up the courthouse steps, but neither spoke for a moment. Olivia didn't need him to fill the silence. He never had. Still, she could feel it building in him–the words, the apology, the half-joke dressed like a confession.

—You haven't told me I screwed it all up yet, he said, finally, his tone light but not empty. I'm starting to feel neglected.

The lieutenant glanced over at him, the corner of her mouth twitching with something like amusement, but her eyes were still sharp—too sharp to miss the weight under his words. The past few days had blurred together: long hours, overlapping jurisdictions, too many bodies, and not enough leads. The city was gripped by fear, and the man they were hunting–once careful, now unraveling–had started to slip. Escalating. Leaving victims like breadcrumbs no one wanted to follow.

And just when Olivia had thought they were close–when she could almost feel the cuffs in her hands—Barba had been pulled off the case. Officially sidelined. Unofficially... it was politics. Pressure. The kind of decision that came down from on high with no room for argument. She hadn't blamed him. His heart had been in the right place, like it always was. But it had brought them here.

He had a meeting. With the District Attorney. The kind where doors closed softly behind you, and futures hung in the balance.

And Olivia... she could feel the goodbyes pressing in, subtle and unwelcome, crowding the space between them.

—I figured you already gave yourself the speech. You usually do.

Rafael chuckled under his breath, nodding once in agreement.

—In triplicate. And annotated. But still... I'd rather hear it from you. You always had a better sense of when I needed a slap or a lifeline.

The brunette let out a quiet breath, her hands tucked deep into the pockets of her coat as the wind curled low between the courthouse steps. She didn't look at him right away–just stared out at the streaks of brake lights on Centre Street, the city pulsing like a steady heartbeat around them. Then, after a moment, she turned her head, gaze landing squarely on his.

—You don't need a slap, Rafael. You already took the hit.

There was no pity in her voice–just that quiet steadiness she carried like armor, forged from years of watching people break and bend under pressure. The ADA had always been different, though. Calculated, but never cold. Passionate, but always tethered to the law like it was his spine. He made calls that haunted him. That was the part no one ever saw. But she did.

—You followed your gut, she added softly. You tried to protect someone. Maybe it wasn't clean, maybe it wasn't textbook–but it wasn't wrong.

His jaw worked slightly as he nodded, something heavy flickering behind his eyes. Not quite regret. Closer to weariness. That deep kind–the kind that doesn't let you sleep.

—They want clean, Liv. Safe. Predictable.

—Then they should've hired someone else. You were never built to sit quietly while the system failed someone.

He laughed at that, short and wry. But it didn't quite reach his eyes.

They stood in silence for another breath, the kind of stillness that only comes from people who've seen each other at their worst and stayed anyway. Then, almost shyly, his tone shifted.

—That FBI agent... Gray. She's still lurking around your bullpen?

Olivia raised a brow, not taking the bait right away.

—She doesn't lurk. She works.

—Ah. My mistake. So she just happens to hover at your desk when she's got a whole Bureau to storm through?

She smirked despite herself, shaking her head, but didn't respond. Which was enough of an answer.

Barba grinned.

—You like her. More than you're letting on.

—Rafael.

—Don't Rafael me. I'm not trying to interrogate you. I just... I know that look. The one you get when you're trying not to admit something to yourself. You wore it the whole time you were with Tucker.

Olivia's breath caught for a second, but not from pain. More like recognition.

The man went on, gentler now.

—Look, I don't know where you and Gray stand. But I know what it's like to walk into buildings like this one and realize too late that the people we care about aren't always waiting outside. So if there's something there–whatever it is–don't sit on it too long.

The words landed with more precision than any cross-examination he'd ever delivered. Olivia didn't flinch, but something in her posture shifted–shoulders not dropping, not relaxing, but adjusting, like she was recalibrating under the weight of a truth she wasn't sure she was ready to hold.

She looked ahead, the courthouse looming quiet and tall in the fading gold light, a familiar silhouette she'd walked toward more times than she could count. But now, for the first time, it felt like she was walking next to something instead of just into something.

She drew in a breath, long and slow, watching it fog in the cold air.

—You think I've been sitting on it?

Rafael gave a small shrug, no smugness in it–just honesty.

—No. I think you've been carrying it. Quietly. Carefully. Like if you look at it too long, it might break. Or you might.

Olivia didn't answer right away. Her eyes tracked a woman crossing the street in front of them, bouquet in one hand, phone in the other. Somewhere down the block, a saxophone played, soft and unhurried. The city always moved like that–never pausing, even when everything inside you begged it to.

She let the silence hang for a while, and Barba didn't push. He never did when it mattered. That was the thing about him. He always knew when to step forward, and when to stay beside you.

—She gets it, the brunette finally said. Not all of it. But... more than most. Maybe more than anyone ever has.

He turned slightly toward her, his expression unreadable but present, which mattered more.

—So why the caution tape?

—Because...she's different. And I'm different. And I've built a life around not needing anyone–until I turned around and realized that's exactly what I want. And that scares the hell out of me.

—That's the part they don't warn you about. Wanting something doesn't always make you weak. But realizing you do? That's what makes you vulnerable.

Olivia nodded slowly, hands in her coat pockets, the weight of his words sinking in deeper than she expected. She glanced sideways at him, a faint smile tugging at her mouth.

—When did you get so good at this?

—Probably somewhere between losing my job and realizing I still care what you think of me.

She nudged his shoulder, light and familiar, the kind of gesture that said we've been through worse even if the words didn't come. They kept walking, their footsteps falling in sync, the courthouse just ahead, its shadow stretching long in the late afternoon light. The conversation between them quieted, but something had shifted–less weight, more clarity. The kind of silence that didn't press, just settled in.

Barba slowed as they reached the steps, pulling to a stop like he wasn't quite ready to cross the threshold. Olivia paused beside him.

—You'll land on your feet, he said, voice low. One way or another. But if this is the end of the line with SVU...

He turned to face her fully, no bravado, no grin. Just that rare kind of stillness he reserved for the things that mattered.

—I'm proud of you.

TAGLIST: @nciscmjunkie @makkaroni221 @thefatobsession @ginasbaby @certainlychaotic @hi-i-1 @kiwiana145 @kobayashi-fr

#lala’s fic recs *ೃ༄#𓏲 ₊˚๑( jul ‘25 fic recs )໑‧₊˚.ꪆ #olivia benson fic recs

21 notes · View notes