enretrogue

[enretrogue]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 23 • Swing, Miss, Stay

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⚠️ 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

[enretrogue]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 22 • Not Home, But Close

TAGLIST FORM

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⚠️ 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

[enretrogue]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 21 • This Is How It Ends

TAGLIST FORM

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⚠️ 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

[enretrogue]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 20 • Suckers for Lost Causes

TAGLIST FORM

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⚠️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

[enretrogue]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 19 • Burning Out — Part II

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⚠️ 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

[enretrogue]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 18 • Burning Out — Part I

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⚠️ 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

[enretrogue]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 17 • The Weight We Carry

TAGLIST FORM

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⚠️ 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

[enretrogue]

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

[enretrogue]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 15 • Born This Way

TAGLIST FORM

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⚠️ 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

[enretrogue]

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

[enretrogue]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 13 • Time in a Bottle

TAGLIST FORM

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary:

Content Warning: None?

*

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 03

Manhattan — Alexis' apartment

07:03 PM

The elevator was taking its sweet time–far too slow for the pace Alexis was running on tonight. It was old, more often than not out of service, and looked oddly misplaced in the middle of a building that had otherwise been given a fresh coat of modern polish. On any other night, she might've paused, leaned against the wall, let herself catch her breath. But tonight wasn't one of those nights. She took the stairs two at a time, boots landing with steady urgency, the kind that came from keeping promises.

The second floor greeted her with a familiar hum—the faint buzz of a hallway light, the distant sound of a TV behind closed doors. She rounded the corner toward her apartment, already reaching into her pocket for her keys, when the only other door creaked open.

—Is that you, little crash? came the familiar voice of Mrs. Adler, warm with affection and tinged, as always, with just a touch of concern.

Alexis eased her pace, her boots stilling against the worn floor as she turned toward the familiar voice. The sigh she let out wasn't frustration–not really–but the kind of fond exhale that only came with people who'd carved out a quiet place in her life.

Mrs. Adler stood framed in the doorway like she always did, cardigan sleeves pushed up to her elbows, a mug of tea cradled loosely in one hand and the ever-watchful look of someone who noticed far more than she ever said.

The woman was a constant–steady, bright-eyed, and unshakable in her belief that Alexis, for all her hardened edges, needed looking after just as much as anyone else. Over the years, she'd taken on the role without asking. Dropping off soup when Alexis came home late. Leaving notes taped to her door when the news mentioned something close to where she'd been deployed. And always, always waiting with some mix of affection and light-hearted interrogation when she came back from a stretch away.

—Evening, Mrs. Adler. You're up late.

—Oh, don't give me that. I know you're trying to sneak past me. The older woman stepped fully into the hall now, her brows lifting. You've been gone nearly three months and this is the first time I've seen more than the back of your head since you got back. I was starting to wonder if the government had replaced you with a quieter model.

The brunette huffed a quiet laugh, already inching toward her own door. She had given Olivia her word that she'd show up around 07:30 p.m. and had no intention of being late. Her muscles were still aching faintly, the deep bruise beneath her shirt throbbing with the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, but she pushed past it like she had a thousand times before. She was used to doing things with pain. What she wasn't used to–what made her chest feel tight now–was the idea of not keeping her word.

—You know I'd never be that lucky, Alexis called over her shoulder with a crooked smile, her words trailing behind her as she pushed open the apartment door.

The entryway welcomed her with its familiar stillness, shadows stretching long beneath the soft glow of the hallway light. She didn't bother flipping on the overheads–the place didn't need them. It smelled like home: clean laundry, worn leather, and the warm, earthy scent of the one creature always waiting.

At the creak of the door, Champ appeared like clockwork, padding into view with his usual calm dignity. His tail gave a few lazy, thumping swings against the wall, eyes lifting to meet hers like he'd been timing her return.

—Right on schedule, partner.

She dropped her keys into the ceramic dish by the door with a quiet clink, the sound echoing softly through the darkened apartment. Her backpack slipped from her shoulder a second later, landing against the wall with a dull thud. The moment the weight was gone, a sharp pull bloomed across her upper back—the bruise protesting the motion—but she didn't flinch. She didn't let herself. Not even for him.

From the entryway, Champ gave a soft whine, like he knew anyway.

Alexis glanced down, managing a faint smile.

—I'm fine,  she said out of habit, her voice quiet and steady. She bent to unhook the leash and harness from their spot by the door. But you're getting your walk. That's non-negotiable.

Champ stepped forward like he'd been waiting for the cue, head tilting slightly, one paw already raised. She crouched to secure the first strap, fingers moving with muscle memory born of years spent side-by-side. The leash clicked into place with practiced ease, the moment as routine as it was grounding.

Most days, this little loop–the walk, the weight of the leash in her hand, the quiet company–felt like the only still point in a world that never stopped moving.

—Okay soldier. Let's stretch those legs.

She locked the door behind them and turned back to the hallway, Champ trotting beside her. The leash lay slack between them, a familiar rhythm already falling into place.

Mrs. Adler was still standing in her doorway, arms folded like she'd never left. Her gaze swept over Alexis, then down to the dog, and back again–eyes narrowing in a way that was more affection than judgment.

—You okay, sweetheart? You look tired.

The brunette paused, one hand tightening briefly on Champ's leash. There was no use pretending with this woman. She could spot a forced smile or an aching shoulder from a hallway's length away.

—I'm fine, she said again, the words automatic–but softer this time. Less deflective. Just a long day.

Mrs. Adler gave a small, knowing hum.

—You've had a lot of those lately.

Alexis didn't argue. She just nodded once, the corners of her mouth lifting in something close to gratitude.

—Yeah... but this one ends with pizza and good company, so I'm counting it as a win.

That earned a chuckle from the older woman. Her young neighbor wasn't exactly known for her social calendar–and if she was this keyed up about running late, it sure as hell wasn't Langford she was meeting.

—Mmm. That's the first sensible thing I've heard you say all week. Who's the lucky dinner date?

—Just me, a four-year old, and his mom.

The woman's brow arched with practice ease, curiosity blooming behind the warm lines of her face.

—The detective?

Alexis gave a half-mile as she adjusted the leash in her hand, Champ waiting patiently by her side.

—Words travel fast.

Mrs. Adler hummed knowingly, lips twitching into a smile as she leaned a little more against her doorway.

—They do when you've got a nosy neighbor who worries. You've mentioned her before, you know. Always with that tone like you didn't mean to.

The agent let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sigh, dragging a hand through her hair as she looked toward the stairwell.

—It's not like that, Mrs. A.

—Maybe not yet, sweetheart. But you've got that look. The one people wear when someone starts mattering more than they expected. And if her little boy's involved now... well. That tells me plenty.

Alexis opened her mouth to respond, but couldn't quite find the words. She never had been great at talking about this kind of thing—not feelings, not hope, not the slow unfolding of something that felt real. So instead, she offered the older woman a lopsided smile.

—We're just getting pizza.

Mrs. Adler tilted her head, wise eyes twinkling.

—Mmm. That's how it always starts.

*

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 03

Manhattan — Olivia's apartment

07:30 PM

Alexis stood in front of Olivia's apartment door, shifting on her heels, the nerves she'd managed to ignore most of the drive there now settling squarely in her chest. Her hands shook slightly, unable to stay long in the warmth of her pockets, and instead found comfort in the repetitive tug of her raincoat's zippered chest pocket. It was an old habit–one born on long missions and tense debriefings, when her body needed something to do while her mind wrestled to stay calm.

The hallway was quiet, dimly lit, wrapped in that kind of stillness that stretched time and made every footstep echo just a little louder than it should. The building, now that she was standing in it, made perfect sense. Clean walls, polished floors, discreet neighbors who kept to themselves—it was the kind of place someone like Olivia would choose. Safe. Controlled. Secure, without feeling cold.

The brunette exhaled slowly through her nose, hand hovering near the door, still not knocking. Never had a simple piece of wood felt more like a wall between her and something she didn't quite have the words for. She was exactly on time–7:30 sharp–after what could only be described as a tactical shower, a minor skirmish with her closet, and a full-blown standoff with her reflection about what passed as 'casual enough' without looking like she was still coming down from an op.

It wasn't a date.

Just pizza.

Just Olivia.

And her four-year-old son.

Whom Alexis had never met.

Her fingers tightened briefly on the edge of her coat, the black rain jacket zipped halfway, the material still cool from the outside air. She could feel her pulse ticking quietly beneath the collar. She wasn't nervous about the kid—not exactly. It was more the unspoken weight of this whole evening. The way Olivia had smiled when she said yes. The quiet, steady kind that stayed with you.

Finally, Alexis drew in a breath, knocked–firm, but not loud. Then waited.

A moment passed. Muffled footsteps inside. The soft creak of the floorboards. And then the click of the lock.

The door opened, and there was Olivia.

Hair tucked behind one ear, dressed in dark jeans and a loose, wine-colored sweater that hung just right on her frame. Barefoot, comfortable in her own space, she looked relaxed in a way that knocked the wind slightly from Alexis's lungs. Beautiful–so effortlessly it made her forget, for one disoriented second, why she'd been nervous in the first place.

—Right on time, the lieutenant said, voice soft with a note of approval.

She stepped back to let her in, her eyes warming the moment she saw her–saw all of her, from the slight tension still held in her shoulders to the telltale restlessness of someone wired for chaos trying to settle into quiet. Alexis hesitated only a beat before stepping over the threshold, raincoat still buttoned and her posture trying too hard not to overthink the moment.

—You look... Olivia tilted her head slightly, brow lifting in a way that made the youngest woman's chest tighten. Like you drove here rehearsing what to say.

Alexis gave a dry huff, running a hand through her hair as the door clicked softly behind her.

—That obvious, huh?

—A little, Benson said with a smile, crossing back toward the living room. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't do the same thing.

The tension eased a fraction, and Alexis followed her into the soft, warm light of the apartment. The air smelled faintly of lavender and something sweet—maybe whatever Noah had been snacking on before she got there. A few toys peeked out from under the edge of the couch, and a tiny pair of sneakers sat neatly near the door.

—Where's the kiddo?

—In his room. Giving Eddie the Elephant a pre-dinner pep talk. He's been excited since I told him you were coming.

Gray smiled—small but real—as her thumb slid back into its old rhythm against the zipper of her coat.

—I hope I live up to the hype.

Olivia moved a step closer, eyes catching hers.

—You're already doing just fine.

The quiet that followed wasn't awkward. It hung between them like a pause before something meaningful. A second later, small feet thundered down the hallway.

Noah appeared in the doorway like a bolt of energy, an elephant plush clutched in one hand, the other already reaching for his mom with the urgency only a four-year-old could manage.

—You said we were getting pizza!

—We are. Olivia said, crouching down to help him into his coat. Her voice was calm, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. And remember what I told you? Alexis is taking us.

The boy paused, halfway into the sleeve of his jacket, and turned wide, curious eyes toward the tall figure near the door. His gaze flicked from Alexis' boots to her raincoat to her face, like he was sizing her up the way only kids could–completely unfiltered.

—You're Lexi? he asked, voice full of suspicion and awe, like he wasn't entirely convinced she was real yet.

Alexis blinked at the nickname, something in her chest giving a quiet, unexpected lurch. She hadn't heard it said like that in years–if ever–with such earnestness. A slow smile tugged at her lips.

—I am, she said, squatting down a little to meet him at eye level. And you must be Noah.

He nodded solemnly, still holding tight to his elephant.

—Mommy says you do cool stuff. Like chase bad guys.

The brunette gave a small chuckle, the sound low and warm, tugging gently at the zipper of her coat in a familiar, almost unconscious gesture—one she defaulted to when nerves started whispering too loudly in her ear. It was her way of staying present, of reminding herself that this wasn't a warzone or a debriefing. It was just a hallway. A kid. A moment. Still crouched low enough to meet Noah's eyes, she tilted her head slightly, a soft smile playing on her lips.

—Sometimes, yeah. But tonight, I just do pizza.

Noah considered that with the intensity only four-year-olds could manage, his brow furrowing like he was evaluating a top-secret dossier. Then, without hesitation, he extended his hand—though not to her, but to present the small, well-loved elephant clutched tightly in his grip.

—This is Eddie, he announced with complete seriousness. He's coming too.

Alexis nodded, her expression softening further as she leaned in just a touch. The gesture felt instinctive, respectful. She treated the introduction like it carried actual weight–like Eddie wasn't just a stuffed animal, but a VIP guest on a mission they were all part of.

—Nice to meet you, Eddie. I hope you like pepperoni.

Noah grinned like he'd just passed her first test, holding Eddie a little higher like he approved, too. Behind them, Olivia stood quietly, watching the exchange unfold with a warmth that tugged at the corners of her mouth. The nerves she'd seen on Alexis's face moments ago had faded slightly—smoothed out by the easy, unfiltered acceptance of a four-year-old and his stuffed elephant.

*

The scent of warm dough and bubbling cheese wrapped around them the moment they stepped into the pizza place–cozy, lived-in, and humming with the low din of chatter and clinking plates. Alexis opened the door without a second thought, her hand catching it easily and holding it for Olivia and Noah, not as a gesture of politeness but from the same instinct that had her walking curbside or checking a room without meaning to. She just moved that way. Attentive. Anchored. Quietly protective of the people who mattered.

The cold slipped off their shoulders the moment they stepped inside, replaced by the comforting warmth of softly humming heaters and the rich, mouthwatering scent of garlic, oregano, and freshly cooked tomato sauce. The space was bright but cozy, the kind of neighborhood spot where every corner seemed familiar even if you'd never been there before.

Olivia stepped past Alexis with an easy grace, murmuring a quiet thank you, her fingers brushing against the young woman's arm–a soft, absent touch that didn't ask for anything but still landed with weight. Gray didn't flinch, didn't pull away. She caught her gaze for half a second, enough to let the moment settle before letting it pass.

The young boy didn't wait for either of them. His boots tapped eagerly across the tile as he darted ahead, still clutching Eddie in one hand and turning in a slow circle to take it all in. There was something wide-eyed and reverent about the way he looked at the glowing string lights overhead, the little arcade game tucked into the corner, the giant chalkboard menu written in uneven loops of colorful script.

This was an adventure.

They found a booth near the back, tucked just enough to feel private. Olivia slid in first, already pulling Noah's scarf loose with practiced hands as he clambered closer, not bothering with formalities. His beanie and puffy coat were next, revealing pink cheeks and tousled hair that had flattened a bit beneath the knit. He fidgeted as she straightened his collar, already squirming to move.

Then, without warning, Noah ducked beneath the table in one swift motion, his mischievous grin flashing just before he disappeared beneath the edge. His mom opened her mouth to call after him, but he was already reappearing on the other side—right next to Alexis—like he'd simply followed some invisible thread that tugged him toward her.

He slid onto the booth with practiced ease, climbing up as if it had been his seat all along. The agent blinked, startled by the sudden shift, but her body adjusted without hesitation. She shifted to the side, made space, her arm drifting instinctively behind his small back to keep him steady on the cushioned seat. It was a quiet, fluid motion–muscle memory more than thought–and she didn't even look down as her hand settled lightly against his sweater, like she'd always known he'd land there.

Across the table, Olivia paused mid-motion, coat still in one hand, her brow lifting with a mixture of surprise and something warmer. She studied the easy closeness between them, the way her son was already leaning slightly into Alexis's side, entirely unbothered by personal space.

—He usually sticks to me like glue, she murmured, a hint of amusement in her voice, but also a softness that hadn't been there earlier–a subtle shift that said she wasn't just observing anymore. She was feeling it. Letting herself feel it.

Noah, unconcerned with the adult energy hanging between them, dropped his elephant on the table with a light thud and turned to look up at Alexis with wide, unfiltered eyes.

—Lexi's cool, he announced, matter-of-fact and entirely unbothered by the formality. She said we're on a mission.

Gray gave a quiet laugh, low in her throat, the kind that warmed her chest without her meaning it to. It wasn't forced or guarded—it just slipped out, carried by the easy rhythm of the moment. She reached for the laminated menu and unfolded it, laying it flat in front of them and angling it toward Noah like they were plotting something far more important than dinner. Her tone dropped into something mock-grave, the corners of her mouth tugging up as she leaned a little closer, voice pitched just for him.

—I take pizza operations very seriously.

The boy's eyes widened like he'd just been let in on a classified briefing. He leaned forward too, elbows propped on the table, the tip of Eddie's trunk resting near the edge of the menu like even the elephant needed to be in on it. He gave a solemn nod, playing along with perfect sincerity.

—What's the best kind?

Alexis tilted her head like she was truly considering the question, her expression thoughtful, brows drawing together just slightly as if this decision carried the weight of national security. She glanced at the menu, then at Noah, then back at Eddie–because if they were doing this, they were doing it right.

—That depends, she said slowly, tapping her finger next to the cartoon illustration of a large pepperoni pie. Are we talking classic mission success? Or maximum cheese pull with low risk of mess?

The brunet blinked,  clearly absorbing the criteria, then shifted even closer, nearly tucking himself fully under her arm. His voice dropped to a whisper, conspiratorial.

—The one with the cheese in the crust. That one.

—Ah. Advanced-level tactics. Risky, but bold. I respect it.

Across the table, Olivia was watching them with quiet amusement, chin resting on her hand. The smile she wore wasn't the practiced one Alexis had seen on her before–the one reserved for strangers or reporters or too-early mornings. This one was soft. Real. Like seeing the two of them together had let something in her exhale.

Alexis caught it, caught her watching, and for a moment, her stomach tightened in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. She gave a small half-smile in return, then turned back to the boy beside her.

—Alright, Commander. Cheese-stuffed crust it is. But I think we need a backup–just in case the tornado strikes before it gets here.

Noah lit up, grinning.

—Fries!

—Strategic. I like it.

Olivia reached for the menu with a quiet laugh,  her hand brushing against Lexi's in the exchange–a featherlight touch, brief but not careless. It lingered in the space between them even after contact was lost, like an echo neither of them acknowledged aloud but both felt just the same. The oldest didn't pull back right away, and her friend didn't rush to fill the silence.

For a half-second, they just looked at each other across the table–Olivia's smile still warm, still amused, but softened now by something gentler beneath it. Familiarity. Maybe even comfort.

—Okay, okay, before you two plan an entire invasion of carbs... let's get our order in.

*

The place had grown quiet since they arrived, the evening crowd thinning as snowflakes continued to drift lazily past the window. Their plates had been cleared. Noah now curled beside his mom again in the booth, head tucked against her side, limbs heavy with sleep and the unmistakable weight of contentment. Eddie the elephant had slipped from his grip, resting between them like an unofficial fourth guest.

Alexis sat across from them, her back to the window, jacket draped over the back of her chair. The warmth of the restaurant had finally eased some of the tension from her shoulders. She nursed the last inch of her drink, fingers wrapped around the glass, her voice low and steady as they spoke in the hush that always follows a good meal and an even better pause.

Olivia glanced down at her son with a soft smile before meeting Alexis' gaze again.

—I heard about Reynolds. Word travels fast in certain circles.

Gray's jaw flexed slightly. She didn't look surprised–Miles was loyal, but subtlety had never been one of his strong suits. If Olivia had heard about the benching, it probably hadn't come through official channels.

Her fingers tapped absently against the side of her glass, a slow, rhythmic motion that matched the quiet churn of her thoughts. Then she exhaled, steady and deliberate, like she was laying down weight she hadn't realized she was still carrying.

—He means well, she said, her voice calm but edged with something sharper. Reynolds. He thinks he's protecting the team. Or maybe just himself. The illusion that he has control over what we walk into every day. She glanced down, briefly watching the condensation drip toward the coaster before meeting Olivia's gaze again. But sidelining me after a hit like that? That's not about safety. That's about fear. And fear makes you sloppy.

She leaned back slightly, fingers finally still.

—If I'd led my SEAL team like that—pulling people back the second things got messy–I wouldn't be here. And neither would half of them. You can't lead from behind a desk. And you can't protect people by pretending risk doesn't exist. Her mouth curved, just slightly. Miles and I... sometimes it feels like we're holding the entire unit together with duct tape and bad coffee.

Olivia's mouth twitched, but she didn't interrupt, just watched her with that steady detective's gaze–half curiosity, half instinct.

—You led a team?

—Twelve operators. We trained together, deployed together. I was responsible for every call. Every movement. Every breath when we were in the field.

There was pride in her tone, sure, but also something weightier–grief, maybe. Or reverence. Like every word she spoke was laced with the names of people she'd once fought beside, people she'd led through hell and brought back—some whole, some not. Her voice didn't tremble, didn't soften, but the way her gaze drifted just slightly to the side said enough. It wasn't just a story she was telling. It was a life she still carried with her, stitched into the way she sat, breathed, held her glass.

Olivia didn't press. She didn't need to. Years on the job had taught her how to spot the difference between silence that was guarded and silence that was sacred. Alexis's was the latter. Whatever she'd done, whoever she'd lost or saved or become in the process—those things weren't for public consumption. They were tucked deep, held close, worn like armor beneath the surface.

So the lieutenant just gave a small nod, slow and respectful,  letting the quiet linger between them for a breath or two. She didn't rush to fill the space—just watched Alexis with that calm, intuitive gaze that always seemed to cut through everything unnecessary. But eventually, gently, she spoke.

—I thought you were retired, she said, not accusatory, just observant.  Then I blinked, and you were gone for three months. No word. No message. Just... gone.

Alexis's gaze dropped for a second, her thumb tracing along the rim of her glass, the motion more muscle memory than thought. She didn't flinch, but something flickered in her expression—like the echo of a door she hadn't quite closed.

—I was. Retired. At least, that's what I told myself.

The oldest stayed quiet, but Gray could feel her listening, waiting without pressure, just... present.

—The thing about the IRR, Alexis continued, her voice low and steady, is that you're not really done. Not unless you make a whole lot of noise about wanting to be. I didn't. I left the SEALs, signed my paperwork, turned in my gear. But I didn't make noise.

She glanced up, eyes dark but honest.

—So when the call came, I picked up. And when they asked if I could be ready in twelve hours, I said yes.

Olivia's brows drew together, not in judgment, but with a softness that came from understanding.

—You didn't even say goodbye.

Alexis swallowed, her eyes dropping to the edge of the table where her fingers now stilled. She didn't look away because she was ashamed–she'd made peace with the necessity of it–but there was something about Olivia's voice, quiet and steady like the hush after a storm, that made her feel the weight of her absence in a different way.

—I couldn't, she said finally, voice low. There wasn't time. They don't give you days to tie up loose ends on that kind of mission. I was wheels up in less than twelve hours, and everything from there on out was blacked out.

Olivia offered a faint smile at that, but the weight in her expression didn't lift completely. She understood. God, she understood. The job demanded things–sacrifices that most people never saw. But even so, three months was a long time to be gone without a word. Especially for someone who never really let people in unless they were already halfway out the door.

The brunette looked back up, meeting Olivia's gaze now, steady and unflinching.

—I wanted to tell you. I almost did. That last morning before I left, I even had my phone out, thumb hovering over your contact. But what was I supposed to say? 'Hey, sorry, gotta vanish into the wind for a while, don't worry if you don't hear from me'? It felt... cruel.

A long silence settled between them then—not uncomfortable, just full. Olivia leaned back in the booth, brushing her fingers over Noah's hair as he shifted in sleep against her side. There was something protective in the way she moved, like even now, even with him safe and warm and full of pizza, she was always guarding him against things she couldn't name.

—I wasn't mad, Olivia said quietly. I just... noticed. One day you were there, and then you weren't. It happens. I just didn't expect it from you.

That cut a little deeper than Alexis expected it to. Not because Benson meant it to hurt, but because she didn't. There was no bitterness in her tone–just honesty, plain and unvarnished. Lexi sat with it for a moment, then nodded once, slow and serious.

—I'll do better next time. If there is a next time.

—Is that your way of saying you might go again?

—I'm still in the IRR. It's not something I talk about often, but yeah. I train a few weekends a year, get updates, do the refresher courses. And if something comes up–something serious–I can be called, or I can volunteer. She glanced down at her hands, then added. It's not a decision I take lightly. But I spent a decade learning how to lead those men and women. They don't forget that. And neither do I.

There was pride in her voice, but it wasn't flashy or defensive. It was quiet, hard-earned. The kind of pride born from years of sacrifice, from moments she could never speak about, from names she'd never get to say out loud.

Olivia took a sip of her drink, still watching her.

—That doesn't scare you?

—Of course it does. But staying back while someone else takes the risk? That scares me more.

The room had emptied some while they talked, the low murmur of other diners fading into the background. Outside, snow still fell in soft, steady flurries. Alexis followed Olivia's gaze to the window, her jaw loosening as the tension of the last few minutes gave way to something a little softer, a little more present.

—You're still the same, the mother said after a moment. The way you move. The way you look after people. You didn't leave that over there.

—It comes back with me. All of it does.

—And when you're not deployed? Olivia asked, glancing down again at her son. When it's quiet?

The SEAL looked at Noah, still sound asleep against his mom, completely unbothered by the world around him. She gave a small shrug, her voice softer now.

—Then I come here. I get to be Lexi. I walk Champ. I carry way too much coffee into the Bureau every morning. And if I'm lucky, I get invited out for pizza.

Olivia smiled at that, slow and genuine, something flickering in her eyes that hadn't been there earlier in the evening. Something open. Something warm.

—Well, she said, brushing a curl from Noah's forehead. Next time you disappear, at least tell me where the coffee's hidden.

Alexis chuckled under her breath, and this time, it didn't sound forced.

—Deal.

*

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

[enretrogue]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 12 • Unfamiliar Territory

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 Crimes talk • The Leo Navarro Case, sniper, shooting, taking a bullet to the vest.

*

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 03

Manhattan — FBI BUREAU

Violent Crimes Unit Floor

06:29 PM

As a detective, Olivia had spent so much time in the 16th precinct that its sight had become familiar to her. There had been changes since her first year in the Special Victims Unit–the building had leaked and they'd had to move, furniture had been modernized, spaces reorganized–but she always managed to find her way back. Even in times when it was more than just some desks that were gone.

This was unfamiliar territory.

She couldn't even remember the last time she'd set foot here. The Bureau was full of FBI agents and she'd spent most of her career away from them. The place felt colder than she expected–not in temperature, but in tone. The floors were dark, polished to a low sheen that reflected the soft overhead lighting. The walls were a mix of metal and glass, sleek but impersonal. It was late enough in the evening that the energy had dimmed, agents either wrapping up for the day or already gone, but the air still held the weight of unfinished work.

She stepped out of the elevator, slowly, a little unsure, her eyes scanning for anything that resembled direction. There was no receptionist, no sign that screamed 'this way', only a hallway that spilled into a larger room ahead. Her feet carried her toward the low murmur of voices and the faint clatter of keyboards. She followed the corridor as it opened into that large, open room–the Violent Crime Unit's squad room.

It reminded her of her own precinct in shape. The desks were arranged in pairs, each one facing its partner, forming small islands of controlled chaos. Most were empty now, save for scattered files, mugs, and the occasional jacket draped over the back of a chair. But in feel, everything here was cleaner, quieter, more calculated.

Her eyes swept over the room, in search of any recognizable faces. They landed on him, in the far-left corner of the room. Miles Langford, unmistakable even from behind, his tall frame bent slightly as he organized a few files into a shoulder bag for the night. His movements were methodical, tired. He hadn't seen her yet. Hadn't seen her took a slow breath and crossed the room, her gaze briefly flicking to the desk that faced his. Empty, clean, organized. Untouched. Alexis'.

—Hey, Olivia said softly as she approached.

Miles looked up, then smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. He looked exhausted. There were shadows under them that hadn't been there two days ago.

—Olivia. Hey. Wasn't expecting you.

Her gaze drifted, taking in the space between them before settling on his desk. Three pictures sat propped in the corner like anchors to another life. One of him with a woman and a little girl–his wife and daughter, she guessed. Another of just the two of them, the little girl laughing mid-spin. But it was the third one that made Olivia pause.

A candid photo. Him and Alexis. Her arm was slung around his shoulder, hair pulled back, his hair a mess like she'd just roughed it up. They were both grinning. That kind of grin that only showed up when you were safe, when you trusted the person next to you completely.

—You two look like trouble.

The agent looked over, and for the first time, the weariness in his eyes gave way to something warmer. He could smell the clean air again, hear the birds singing, see the greenery all around him. Eventually, after six months, Alexis had persuaded him to go camping with her. They'd left town for the weekend, pitched their tent down in Pennsylvania, somewhere where Miles had lost his shoes and his dignity.

—It was a good trip. I think she shoved me into a pond about twenty minutes after that was taken.

Olivia huffed a soft laugh, then glanced at the desk across from his again–Alexis'. There wasn't much on it. Not a single photo. Not a post-it note. Not even a paperweight. Just a closed tablet, a sealed bottle of water, and perfectly stacked folders. Clean lines. Everything in its place.

—That's hers. Hasn't changed in three years. She's got a place like that, too. Looks like no one lives there. Not until you find Champ's corner and realize he owns the lease.

Miles finished zipping his bag, then leaned a hip against the desk, a long yawn escaping him. His day had begun yesterday at 8 a.m. and was just about to end. Turns out, Leo Navarro's case was far more complex than it appeared. And though he and Alexis had devoted hours to the matter, it was beyond their control now.

—Long day?

—Long night, long day. Langford rubbed his eyes for a moment and tucked his brunet curls back. Lexi and I pulled nearly twenty-four hours chasing down leads. Baldwin's company is dirtier than we thought.

—How bad?

—We're talking about an international ring. Guy claims protection for any wealthy family, invades their privacy and spreads chaos. So far, there have been several complaints in California, Europe and even Greece.

—And you're not on it anymore because..?

Olivia was well aware of everyone's turf. Numerous cases had been taken away from her on the pretext that they now fell within the jurisdiction of the FBI or any other agency. It was the same at the edge of Manhattan. The rules were quite clear. If a case like the Baldwin affair were to go international, the lieutenant knew that another unit would take care of it.

—Apart from the fact that it's out of our jurisdiction, as I'm sure you know, Miles began, tone clipped with frustration. Reynolds benched us.

—Because of what happened?

—Because Alexis took a round to the vest two days after stepping off the tarmac. He says it's protocol. Says she needs recovery time, mental clearance, whatever.

They didn't need more than a glance to share the same understanding. Olivia could feel the same frustration pulse low in her chest. This was Lexi they were talking about–one of the most capable, determined women either of them had ever known. She wasn't built to be sidelined. And she sure as hell didn't need a signature from some shrink to tell her whether she was ready to work. She'd been through worse, over and over again. This wasn't about recovery. It was about control.

Olivia exhaled quietly, eyes drifting to Alexis's empty desk again. Her mind replayed the last twenty-four hours—the gunshot cracking through the street, the weight of Alexis pushing her to the pavement, the dull thud of the bullet hitting the vest. And after that? The way Lexi had covered her, refusing to move until Olivia was safe. No hesitation. No thought for herself. She'd walked away from a war zone and right into another one, and instead of resting, she threw herself into the fire all over again.

—She doesn't stop, Benson said, half to herself.

Miles caught the note in her voice and gave a knowing tilt of his head. It had taken him a while, but he now knew Alexis better than anyone. She wouldn't stop, not until death overtook her.

—Never has. It's not in her nature.

—She's still here?

He nodded, tipping his head toward the hallway behind him. Just past his desk, a short flight of steps led up to the elevated section of the floor, where a pair of glass-fronted offices overlooked the squad room below. Behind his shoulder, Olivia caught sight of the conference room and what looked like a small break area–coffee machine, microwave, a few scattered mugs. Beyond that, a long corridor stretched out, lined with doors that suggested more rooms–storages, archives, maybe interrogation or private workspaces.

—Had to check in with the Bureau doc. Box to tick before she gets put on administrative leave–if Reynolds gets his way. She wasn't thrilled, but she went. She's probably in the locker room now, he gestured with a lazy wave, cooling off. Or, more likely, stewing in silence.

Olivia hesitated for a moment, eyes lingering on the faint trace of Alexis's presence–on the clean desk, the empty chair, the untouched water bottle. Then she turned, her steps already heading toward the hallway, each one faster than the last.

—Up the stairs, straight down the hallway. First right, then left. You'll see it.

It was unfamiliar territory. But she wasn't here for the Bureau.

She was here for her.

*

Olivia walked in the direction Miles had pointed out, heels muted against the polished floor. The small set of stairs gave way to a quieter corridor, the bustle of the room fading behind her–no more than the occasional murmur of voices or the faint rhythm of fingers tapping on keys. It felt like the whole building had taken a breath, the kind of stillness that settled only after long hours and too many unanswered questions.

She moved forward with quiet purpose, though a subtle hesitation tugged at her stride. She'd spent her career moving through precincts and offices, rooms where the weight of the job hung in the air like a second skin. But this place wasn't hers. Not her walls. Not her rhythm. And somehow, that made all the difference.

The door to the locker room was ajar, swaying just slightly as if someone had passed through moments before. Olivia eased it open, the hinge giving a soft creak that echoed the stillness. The room greeted her with that familiar mix of metal and disinfectant, dim fluorescent lights buzzing quietly overhead. Rows of lockers stretched out before her, each one identical, impersonal, and silent.

At first glance, it seemed empty. Then a flicker of movement caught her eye–subtle, tucked between two rows near the back.

Alexis.

She stood facing an open locker, partially in shadow, her shirt folded neatly on the bench beside her gear. Her back was bare to the room, the skin along her shoulder marred by the deep, mottled bloom of a fresh bruise. She leaned closer to the small mirror fixed to the inside of the locker door, trying to twist just enough to catch the worst of it in the reflection. The edges were angry and raw, the mark unmistakably shaped by the force of a bullet caught by a vest that had done its job–just barely.

Olivia lingered at the threshold for a moment, her presence quiet, almost uncertain. From where she stood, she could see the pain written in the lines of the woman's shoulders–but some stubbornness too. The same fire that had led her to throw herself in front of a sniper's bullet without thinking twice.

—I'm fine, Alexis said, without turning. Her voice was calm. Measured. The kind of tone that tried to shut the door before anyone could wedge it open. Just a bruise. The doc said so himself.

The lieutenant stepped into the room, letting the heavy door fall shut behind her. Her footsteps echoed lightly on the tile, slow and hesitant as she crossed the space.

—You always diagnose yourself before anyone can get a word in?

Benson's voice was soft, but there was weight behind it–an edge threaded with something deeper. Not anger. Not really. Worry, maybe. That quiet frustration that only showed up when someone you cared about acted like their pain didn't count.

Alexis didn't turn right away. She stood still, her hand braced on the edge of the locker, back exposed to the cold air and Olivia's gaze. When she finally did glance over her shoulder, it was brief–just long enough for the other woman to catch the faintest pull at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. Not quite.

—Better than waiting for everyone else to panic about it.

Her tone was light, deflective, but Olivia didn't take the bait. Her eyes didn't move from the bruise–angry, raw, still blooming across her back like it hadn't decided how much damage to settle on. Then her gaze rose to meet the agent's, and her voice dipped lower.

—You didn't even hesitate.

The words hung there, heavier than the quiet between them. Olivia didn't ask it like a compliment, or a question. It was an observation wrapped in something else–something that stuck in her throat because she hadn't been able to stop it. Because she had felt it happen, the rush of movement, the weight of Alexis slamming into her before the shot rang out.

The youngest turned back to the locker, jaw tight, the fabric of her shirt still bunched in her fist.

—Wasn't a decision, she said after a beat. It was instinct.

—That instinct could've killed you.

There was a little more steel in Olivia's voice now–not loud, but firm. It wasn't anger, not really, but it landed close to it. Close enough to make Alexis pause.

—I was wearing a vest, she replied, like that was supposed to make it fine. Like that made it less terrifying.

—You didn't know that was all it would take, the brunette countered. You didn't know the shot wouldn't go higher, or hit somewhere the vest couldn't cover.

Alexis turned then, slowly, the fabric of her shirt loose in one hand. Her bare shoulders tensed slightly under Olivia's gaze, but her expression remained composed. Unshaken on the surface. However her eyes–those told a different story. That same stubborn fire lived there, the one Olivia had seen in every room they'd ever worked together. The one that surfaced every time Alexis stood between danger and someone else. Not because she had to–but because she didn't know how to do anything else.

—I knew you weren't wearing one.

It hit Olivia like a slow, deep bruise–one that settled in her chest and stayed there. A simple truth. No dramatics, no second thoughts. Just a fact.

And for a moment, she couldn't breathe around it.

She thought about all the times Alexis had stood at her shoulder, never demanding space, but always taking it. Watching her six. Keeping quiet tabs when things ran too long or threats got too close. The special agent was always there–offering backup before Olivia ever had to ask, anchoring herself in the middle of chaos like it was second nature. And not just for her. For every detective on her squad. For every victim they carried together.

She realized now how much she'd grown used to that–used to Alexis being there. And how easily she could've lost her.

Olivia blinked, exhaling slowly through her nose, the words still caught somewhere in her throat. But Alexis was already shifting the air, trying to turn the page.

—Okay, she said, tugging her shirt back over her head with a wince she barely acknowledged. Enough of the dramatics. How about I make it up to you with pizza? Best slice in the city. I'll even let you pretend it's better than whatever uptown nonsense you've been eating.

—You're bribing me with carbs?

—Always. It's a foolproof strategy.

The lieutenant shook her head gently, but there was no edge in it–just something soft, something caught between apology and appreciation. The warmth of Alexis' offer lingered in the air, brushing up against the tension she hadn't fully shaken off since the shooting. It was still there, wrapped tight around her ribs like a too-familiar pressure–what could've happened, what almost did.

—I'd say yes, she said quietly, her voice thinning slightly. But I've got to get home. Free the babysitter. Noah's probably halfway through a bag of marshmallows and pretending he's a spy.

Alexis let out a quiet breath of a laugh, but the motion of her hands slowed–fingers pausing on the buttons of her shirt like the moment had shifted under her feet. She didn't look away, though. Just tilted her head a little, considering.

—You could bring him, she said after a beat.Her tone was light–too light. Almost casual. But Olivia heard the hesitation tucked between the words. A flicker of something more tentative, as if the idea mattered more than she wanted to admit. He likes pizza, right?

The question stopped the mother. Not because of what was said, but because of how.

She looked at her friend–really looked—and saw something else underneath all the usual deflection. That familiar guarded ease had cracked just a little, giving way to something more uncertain. A rare vulnerability. One Alexis probably didn't even realize had slipped through.

Olivia's lips parted, then curved into a slower smile. A real one. Quiet and unguarded.

—Yeah, she murmured. Yeah, he does.

A flicker of relief crossed Alexis' face, like she'd taken a gamble and won.

—Then come, she said, her voice gaining a bit more steadiness. There's a booth in the back he can take over. Sit sideways with his sneakers on the seat, boss everyone around. He'll love it.

Olivia arched a brow.

—You planning to hand over tactical control to a four-year-old?

Alexis shrugged one shoulder, still working on the last of her buttons.

—Kid's got instincts. I mean, I haven't met him, but I've heard the stories. If he calls for air support, I'm not gonna question it.

That earned a laugh—quiet and genuine, the kind that softened Olivia's shoulders without her realizing. It slipped past the lingering worry still curled in her chest, a moment of warmth after two days spent edging around what could've gone so wrong.

—You're ridiculous.

—I've been called worse, Alexis replied, smirking as she slid her jacket on. And hey–I'll even try not to swear too much. I'll treat him like a tiny agent in training.

—A four-year-old in training?

Alexis zipped up her backpack, sliding the last of her gear inside with the ease of routine. She slung it over her shoulder before turning to face Olivia fully. Her stance had shifted–no longer tight or braced like it had been all day, but looser, her weight settled evenly. Her edges weren't quite as sharp now, her gaze clearer.

—Gotta start 'em young, she said with a small smirk, nodding toward Olivia's phone. He's got your eyes–give it another year and he'll be interrogating playground suspects like a pro.

The brunette let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh. The smile that followed was instinctive, lingering like a warmth she hadn't expected.

—That might be the most terrifying thing I've heard all week.

—New year, new me, Alexis replied without missing a beat, though her voice dipped a little as she added, more softly, But seriously... I'd like to meet him.

It wasn't just something to say–it landed differently. Olivia heard it in the way Lexi's tone dropped, in how her gaze didn't waver. It wasn't small talk or a casual deflection. It was steady, honest–spoken with the kind of sincerity the young woman reserved for the people she let past the surface.

Olivia's fingers hovered over her phone for a beat, then brushed against the screen as she looked down. A pause, just long enough to let the weight of the offer settle. When she looked back up, her voice was quieter.

—Alright. Let me text the sitter. If Noah's not three marshmallows deep in chaos–we're in.

A slow smile spread across Alexis's face–not the cocky grin she wore in the field or the wry smirk she used to sidestep feelings, but something real. Something that reached her eyes.

—Good. I've got a lot of making up to do. And if he's half as cool as you make him sound, I'm already outmatched.

—You haven't even met him and he's already got you under his spell.

—What can I say? the agent shrugged with mock defeat. I've got a thing for smart kids... and strong moms.

The words hung there a second longer than either of them expected, a quiet beat stretching between them–steady and unspoken. Then, with a glance that felt a little like a promise, they stepped out of the locker room together.

The Bureau had slipped into its evening lull—overhead lights dimmed, monitors casting blue glows over empty desks, the air filled with the distant hum of vending machines and shuffling paper. Most agents were gone. The chaos of the last two days finally beginning to settle into memory.

Their footsteps echoed quietly, side by side, easy now in a way they hadn't had the space for until this moment.

And just like that, the shadows–of the case, of the shot fired, of what could have been–began to lift. Not completely, not forgotten. But quieter. Lighter.

Because ahead, there was something simple waiting: a booth in the back of a pizza joint. Laughter over greasy slices. A wide-eyed four-year-old staking claim to a corner table like it was his command post.

Not just a distraction.

Something real.

They moved forward–worn, but steady.

And this time, they weren't carrying it alone.

*

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

[enretrogue]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 11 • Eye in the Sky

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 Crimes talk • crime scene, blood, getting shot, sniper, corpse, NYPD officers, witnesses, shooting in broad daylight, CSU, security consultant, SA, Abuse, threats, Mention of manipulation, fear, control, mention of obsessive boyfriend, mention of online harassment, being silenced, | Mention of being back at work too early | Mention of weapons such as a Glock and a rifle | Getting shot in the vest.

*

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 02

Midtown Manhattan — CRIME SCENE

03:48 PM

The sirens had long faded, leaving behind only the hum of police radios and the low murmur of uniformed officers pushing back the curious crowd. Bright yellow tape stretched across the sidewalk, fluttering in the breeze like a warning flag. It was still daylight, the winter sun casting long shadows through the city's narrow street. But there was nothing warm about the scene.

Alexis stepped out of the black Bureau SUV and adjusted the tactical vest across her chest, her breath visible in the crisp afternoon air. The familiar weight of her sidearm, the stiff collar of her neck warmer, the gravel under her boots–it all brought her right back to the tempo of stateside work.

She scanned the perimeter automatically, even as the wind tugged at the edges of her rainproof jacket. Her face still bore the marks of long months away–subtle sun-creased lines at the corners of her eyes, the faint shadow of a healing bruise under one cheekbone, and a gaze just a bit more hardened than before.

Her partner joined her a second later, slamming the passenger's door shut with one hand and adjusting his earpiece with the other. He glanced down the block at the swarm of patrol cars, then back at his friend, a grin already forming.

—Please, tell me you've unpacked more than just your toothbrush, he said, his voice somewhere between amused and exasperated. Because last time I set foot in your apartment, it looked more like a storage unit with delusions of being a home.

Alexis let out a huff, tugging on her gloves with brisk efficiency. The cold didn't bother her much, not after the months she'd spent overseas, but his commentary was another story. She didn't bother looking at him as she replied.

—It's not that bad.

—It's sterile, Miles shot back, following her as they stopped near the yellow tape. I've seen hotel lobbies with more soul.

Her apartment was quiet. Purposefully. The kind of place designed to take up as little emotional space as possible. Clean counters. Neutral walls. Furniture chosen for function, not comfort. It was the only place in her life she had full control over–why clutter it?

—I unpacked my shampoo. And my socks, she said flatly. That's practically nesting.

The man shook his head, giving a faint laugh as they took the time to take in the scene. Officers were moving with careful precision, already blocking off the street and logging evidence. The smell of city grit and something coppery lingered in the air.

—You live like you're one bug-out bag away from disappearing. Champ's corner has throw pillows, Lex. Your dog lives better than you.

—He has taste.

—And you've got the aesthetic of a monk, Miles added, catching the gloves she sent his way. I'm pretty sure your place echoes when you breathe.

Alexis tilted her head toward him, not bothering to hide the smirk tugging at her lips.

—I have a shelf.

Miles paused, then straightened, narrowing his eyes at her.

—A shelf. Right. Let me guess–still the same sad little baseball sitting on it?

She didn't deny it. Instead, she stood a little taller, chin up like she was daring him to question her taste in sentimental keepsakes.

—Nolan Ryan. Rookie year. Signed. It's a damn good baseball.

Miles barked out a laugh.

—You're the only person I know who could make a legendary fastball feel like home décor.

She didn't answer. Just smirked, then turned back to the crime scene–her boots crunching softly over the pavement as they finally made their way under the yellow tape. The banter faded as the weight of their surroundings returned.

The victim, a man in his mid-thirties, lay sprawled on the concrete, partially hidden by a delivery truck that had screeched to a halt mid-block. His dress shirt was stained deep red at the collar, blood pooled around his head, seeping into the cracks between the pavement. No obvious signs of a robbery—his watch, wallet, and phone still on him.

—Single shot to the neck, one of the patrol officers briefed, his voice clipped. No casing found. Witnesses heard the pop but didn't see a shooter. Sniper's all we can guess.

Miles crouched next to the body, eyes scanning the rooftops above them.

—That's a hell of a shot. From this angle? Clean, deliberate.

—Targeted, Alexis added, her jaw tightening. He never even knew it was coming.

The street around them was chaos disguised as calm. A bus stalled a few feet down the block, passengers still inside. Uniforms were canvassing, interviewing a few lingering witnesses. A woman stood near a flower shop's shattered front window, shivering under a blanket, mascara streaked down her cheeks.

The SEAL took a slow breath and looked over at the agent.

—He was walking out of that building, right?

—Yeah. Corporate offices–security firms, I think. SVU flagged him on a joint task force yesterday, something about suspected trafficking through company assets. Name's Leo Navarro.

That got her attention.

—Navarro?

Miles nodded grimly.

—He was supposed to sit down with SVU this afternoon. Olivia's team. Word was he was about to flip–start naming names.

—Someone didn't want him talking.

Alexis exhaled slowly, her gaze scanning the windows above them. Her hand settled naturally on the grip of her weapon, not drawing in–yet–but letting the weight ground her. The tension in the air wasn't just about the murder anymore. It was instinct, and something more—a gut-deep certainty that this was only the beginning.

The soft screech of tires pulled her focus. A black unmarked SUV rolled to a stop just beyond the cordon, and the doors opened in near-perfect sync. Amanda was the first out, eyes already narrowed, her badge swinging from her belt. Olivia stepped out next, calm but charged with purpose, her expression unreadable until her gaze caught Alexis's across the street.

For a second, the commander forgot about the body. About the blood. About the open street and the dozens of eyes watching. Olivia was in slacks and a dark wool coat, her badge clipped to her hip, and something about the way she moved–steady, deliberate–made the noise around Alexis dull into background hum.

She turned toward her, arms folding across her chest, her tone dry but unmistakably warm.

—You again? Alexis called out, arms folded, the corner of her mouth tugging upward in that familiar, impossible-to-read smirk. We've really got to stop meeting like this, Lieutenant.

Olivia slowed her pace as she approached, her mouth twitching before she allowed a smile to break through.

—Believe me, she said, stepping under the crime scene tape without breaking stride. I've been trying.

Their eyes held for a beat too long—too knowing, too familiar. Alexis wasn't in uniform, but there was still something unmistakably commanding about her. Tactical vest snug against her frame, dark neck warmer tucked beneath the collar, her skin still showing the faded ghosts of bruises earned thousands of miles away. She looked like she'd never left. And like she'd never fully returned, either.

Behind them, Amanda stopped just inside the perimeter, scanning the scene with her usual sharp eye, but her gaze eventually drifted back toward Olivia and Alexis. She watched the exchange with mild amusement, then turned her head slightly to catch Miles's eye.

He didn't say anything. Just gave her a look–half smirk, half exasperated sigh–the universal expression for yep, this again.

The blonde raised her eyebrows, clearly fighting back a grin.

—So, she murmured under her breath, sliding up beside him. When were you planning on telling us she was back.

Miles shrugged, but his smile gave him away.

—Thought it'd be more fun to let the drama speak for itself.

Amanda chuckled, and the two of them watched as Olivia stepped closer to Alexis, her tone casual but lined with something quieter. Concern, maybe. Curiosity. Something harder to name.

—You weren't scheduled back until next week.

Alexis didn't answer right away. Her eyes flicked down the street, toward the rooftops where a sniper might've been. The wind pushed past them, lifting the edge of her coat and tugging at a stray strand of hair that had slipped loose from her braid. She reached up absently, tucking it behind her ear as if buying time.

Finally, she exhaled through her nose and offered Olivia a crooked half-smile.

—Yeah, well... you know me. Sitting still isn't exactly my strong suit.

The lieutenant's brow knit, just slightly. She'd heard those words before–too many times from people who used work to outrun something else. And Alexis Gray had always been good at running. From war zones. From grief. From herself, maybe.

—You were supposed to take some time, Liv said softly. Let your body catch up to the rest of you.

—My body's fine, Alexis replied quickly. Too quickly.

Olivia gave her a look, the kind that cut through defense mechanisms like they were paper. Her voice dropped lower, meant only for the brunette to hear.

—And your head?

That was harder to dodge. Alexis's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. She glanced past the detective for a beat–at Amanda talking to CSU, at Miles crouched again near the body, barking something about the trajectory and the wind. Then she looked back at her, steadying herself.

—I needed to move, she said finally. To do something. Sitting at home, pretending I'm not thinking about it all anyway? That's not rest. That's hell.

Olivia didn't argue. She knew what that felt like–lying in bed with silence pressing in like a second skin. And she knew better than most that healing wasn't linear, and it sure as hell wasn't neat.

—Just promise me you'll tell someone if it gets too heavy, she said after a long beat. Doesn't have to be me.

Gray looked at her for a second too long, something flickering across her expression–gratitude, maybe. Maybe something else.

—I'll think about it, she said, which for her was practically a full-throated yes.

Before Olivia could respond, Miles stood, brushing his palms together, and called out.

—We've got something weird with the angle. CSU says the shooter must've been up high–but not in any of the windows directly facing the street. It's like he had a clear line of sight without ever stepping into view.

Amanda frowned and joined him.

—So either someone knew exactly how to avoid every camera on this block...

—Or it wasn't their first time doing this, Olivia finished grimly.

Alexis was already scanning the rooftops, instinct clicking into place. Something about the setup didn't sit right. Too clean. Too fast. The kind of kill that suggested more than just a warning.

Then her voice cut through, low and certain.

—This wasn't just about silencing a witness.

Olivia turned to her, catching the edge in her tone.

—You think it was meant for more?

The brunette nodded slowly.

—They're sending a message. And if they're watching... it means we're already behind.

The weight of her words settled over them like the clouds creeping in above.

And somewhere, from a rooftop none of them could yet see–someone watched through a scope, still waiting.

*

Leo Navarro had once worn the uniform of a U.S. Army Ranger–disciplined, sharp, and driven by the need to serve. After his honorable discharge, he'd tried to live a quieter life. He moved to New York from Wisconsin, determined to be closer to his daughter and maintain the joint custody agreement. The city was chaotic, but it offered him stability, a new start.

He took a job as a private security consultant with the Badwin family's firm–a sleek, well-connected company that promised high-end protection services to New York's elite. On paper, it seemed like a good fit. Navarro had the experience, the training, and the instincts. But it didn't take long before things started to feel wrong.

Within two months, Leo had already begun to see beneath the polished surface. Mike Baldwin, the charismatic man at the helm, didn't seem interested in preventing harm–he orchestrated it. He built threats, not barriers. Clients believed they were hiring protection, but what they were really buying was manipulation. Fear was a commodity, and Baldwin used it to control, extort, and dismantle lives from the inside out.

One of the worst cases had stayed with Leo–haunted him, really. It was the kind of thing you couldn't unsee, couldn't push out of your conscience no matter how many times you told yourself to move on.

A wealthy Manhattan father had hired the firm to 'protect' his teenage daughter. On paper, it looked like a routine assignment: threats from an obsessive ex-boyfriend, increased online harassment, and the occasional paparazzi-type lurking around their Upper East Side home. Baldwin Security stepped in with discretion and promise. Leo was one of the first agents placed on the case.

But it didn't take long before the details stopped adding up.

Baldwin twisted the narrative from the start, quietly shifting Leo off the assignment and replacing him with one of his own hand picked men–the kind who followed orders without asking questions. The girl's father, wealthy and influential, seemed more concerned about optics than his daughter's well-being. And Mike Baldwin knew how to use that.

Instead of protecting the young girl, Baldwin used her. Manipulated her isolation. Isolated her further from her friends, her school, even her mother, who had been quietly pushed out of the picture in a bitter divorce. She was vulnerable, barely sixteen, and completely dependent on the men who were supposed to keep her safe.

Leo had found out too late. He'd tried to intervene once, to bring it up discreetly inside the company, and was warned off. Threatened. Moved to another post. But the damage had already been done. He started keeping his own records after that. Dates, names, assignments. He knew there were more victims–different girls, different families, the same patterns.

And this case? This girl? She was the reason SVU had come sniffing around in the first place.

*

The information was still fresh–not yet in official reports, but whispered between agents and detectives. Olivia had pulled the file herself that morning, the case circling her desk like smoke that wouldn't clear. Leo Navarro hadn't just been a body on the street. He'd been trying to do the right thing. And someone had made damn sure he didn't.

Now, the four of them stood in the middle of Lexington Avenue, sunlight catching on the slick pavement where cleanup crews hadn't finished washing the blood away. Leo's body had already been taken, but the weight of what he left behind hung heavy. A folder of emails. Two phone calls made to Olivia's office. A third, unanswered call from the night before. They'd been this close to hearing everything.

Alexis stood near the marked circle where Leo's body had fallen, one boot just outside the yellow chalk. Her eyes were distant, mouth drawn tight behind her neck gaiter. She hadn't said much since Miles briefed them all again, but the tension in her posture spoke louder than anything else.

The blonde detective had her hands jammed into her coat pockets, rocking slightly on her heels.

—He knew too much. Knew enough to scare Baldwin into pulling the trigger.

—Or calling someone who would, her boss added grimly, her eyes on the rooftops. This wasn't just clean-up. This was a message.

—He was supposed to talk to SVU today. That's not a coincidence.

Alexis tilted her head slightly, her eyes scanning the buildings again.

—Someone didn't want him flipping, she murmured.

Then she stilled.

At first, no one noticed. She was always scanning, always a step ahead. But this time, she didn't move. Her whole body had gone sharp with focus, eyes fixed upward at a corner of one of the buildings across the street.

—Lex? Her partner asked, casually, like he didn't want to startle her.

She didn't answer.

Instead, her voice dropped low. Controlled. Urgent.

—Reflection. Third floor, left window. Everyone–get down!

She moved like lightning, shoving Olivia hard toward the sidewalk just as the crack of a rifle echoed down the narrow corridor of city buildings. The sound was sharp, violent, and sudden.

Alexis landed on top of Olivia with a heavy thud, her arms shielding the older woman's head as more officers scrambled into cover. The world turned into chaos around them–shouts, screams, the frantic burst of radios sparking to life.

A punch of pain shot through Alexis's back as her body jerked forward. The round had hit her square in the vest, driving the breath from her lungs, but it didn't go through.

—Are you hit? Olivia's voice was urgent beneath her, hands pressing at Alexis' sides, eyes wild.

—I'm fine. Vest took it.

—But you-

–Stay down, Alexis ordered, voice low but sharp. Don't move until I say.

Her hand shot up to press the comms mic clipped to her shoulder, but not before her other arm steadied Olivia, guiding her gently into a sitting position behind the cruiser they were using for cover. The chaos of the street blurred at the edges of Alexis's focus, but not Olivia—not her. She crouched close, one gloved hand briefly brushing Olivia's jaw, checking for blood, for any sign she'd been hit, even as her own back throbbed from the impact of the bullet caught in her vest. Her voice was low, urgent, but steady, her eyes scanning Olivia's face.

—You're good? she asked, her tumb momentarily resting just beneath the lieutenant's chin, tipping her face toward the light.

Only when Olivia gave a shaky nod did Alexis lean back slightly, exhale the breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and press the mic on her shoulder. The steel returned to her spine as she straightened up, body shifting instinctively back into combat posture. The protector. The soldier. But even as she prepared to move, her hand lingered a second longer on Olivia's shoulder, grounding them both.

—Miles–sniper, third floor, left window. Across the street. Cover me. I'm going for the gear.

—Got you.

The agent was already moving. He dropped into a low crouch behind a patrol cruiser, drawing his weapon and zeroing in on the upper windows across the street.

—Rollins, with me. Watch the left flank.

—I'm on it, Amanda replied, sliding smoothly into place beside him. She drew her Glock and angled her body against the open door of a black-and-white. Go, Lex!

Alexis didn't need to be told twice.

She bolted from Olivia's side, boots pounding the pavement as another shot cracked through the air and splintered the windshield of a nearby parked car. Shards of glass exploded outward, but she didn't flinch, just kept running–low, fast, deliberate–toward the FBI SUV a few yards behind the police line.

Officers ducked behind barriers. Civilians were ushered behind makeshift cover. Chaos unfolded in the background, but Alexis had tunnel vision now.

She skidded to the back of the Bureau-issued vehicle, yanked the hatch open, and ducked into cover behind it. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts, adrenaline buzzing under her skin. She shoved aside a sealed evidence kit and unlatched the tactical weapons case secured along the floor of the trunk.

Fingers steady despite the tension in her shoulders, she popped it open. Her rifle was nestled inside like a waiting hand. Familiar. Reliable.

She grabbed it, checked the chamber, clipped the scope into place with practiced ease, and dropped to one knee behind the rear bumper for partial concealment.

—Miles, how's my window? she asked over comms, already adjusting the dial on the scope to compensate for distance and elevation.

—Still active. Movement behind the glass, three o'clock. Amanda's suppressing fire's holding him, but not for long.

Alexis braced the butt of the rifle against her shoulder, peeking through the scope. The third floor window–dusty glass, cracked open just enough to allow a barrel through–was still there, but the glint was gone.

That didn't stop her.

—I've got him. He's moving right, probably repositioning.

Through the lens, she saw the faintest flicker of shadow shift behind the curtain. She adjusted her aim a fraction to the left.

—Come on, she murmured. Give me an angle.

Olivia, still crouched behind a patrol car near the sidewalk, pressed her comms.

—Lexi, wait–don't overcommit. We can fall back and-

—No time, Gray said, voice clipped. If he's repositioning, he'll take another shot in seconds. I'm not giving him a clean one.

The seconds dragged like hours. Wind picked up. Sirens whined distantly. And then-

Movement. A silhouette leaned too far into the window for just a breath.

—Gotcha.

Alexis squeezed the trigger.

The shot rang sharp and clean, echoing like a whip across the rooftops.

Through her scope, she saw the figure jerk backward violently, then disappear from view.

—Target down, she said into her comms, lowering the rifle. Window's clear.

Miles was the first to let out a low breath.

—Damn, Gray. You still got it.

—I never lost it, Alexis shrugged, slinging the rifle across her chest and finally standing up fully.

Amanda called over from her position, eyes still scanning the skyline.

—Scene's holding. Officers moving to secure the building now.

The SEAL exhaled sharply, her breath fogging in the cold air as she swept one last, meticulous glance across the rooftops. Her muscles remained taut beneath the weight of her vest, adrenaline still humming just beneath the surface of her skin. The silence that followed was thick and unforgiving, broken only by the distant wail of approaching sirens and the murmur of officers regrouping behind cover. No more shots. No more glints of light. Whoever had pulled the trigger was gone.

She lowered the rifle, not completely, but enough to let herself breathe again.

Her gaze snapped back to Olivia.

The lieutenant was slowly rising from behind the cruiser, her palm braced against the fender, her movements careful and deliberate. Dust clung to her coat. A scrape marked the side of her hand. But she was standing–alive. Visibly rattled, but composed in that quiet, defiant way that Olivia always was. The kind of composed that came after years of getting up, no matter how hard you were hit.

Alexis moved toward her in three brisk strides, boots crunching on scattered glass and debris.

—You okay?

Olivia nodded, but the moment her eyes met Alexis's, something in her expression flickered—gratitude, fear, anger at being caught off-guard, maybe all of it layered into a single breath.

Without hesitation, Alexis extended a hand. Olivia took it, and Alexis pulled her up in one smooth motion. For a beat too long, neither of them let go.

—You got hit, Olivia murmured, eyes narrowing as she glanced at the back of Alexis's vest. The impact mark was deep, slightly off-center–close enough to be lethal if the angle had been just a little different.

—Vest caught it.

Alexis brushed it off like she hadn't felt the wind knocked out of her when it happened. She could still feel the ache blooming across her spine like bruised thunder. But none of that mattered. Not when Olivia had been the target.

—Are you always this dramatic when you come back from deployment? Benson said, trying for levity but not quite hiding the emotion in her voice.

Alexis gave a tired, crooked smile. And for a moment, in the wreckage of spent bullets and scattered glass, the weight of what could've happened hung between them like smoke that hadn't cleared.

—Figured I'd make an entrance.

*

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

[enretrogue]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter Ten • It’s a Long Way Back

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⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary: Alexis is back in town.

Content Warning: none, for once. I think.

*

TUESDAY, JANUARY 30

Manhattan — Langford House

06:45 AM

Alexis hadn't set foot here in weeks.

The familiar shape of the Langford's home stood before her like something from a different life. It felt both the same and utterly new, like stepping back into a dream you weren't sure was real anymore. Her boots thudded softly against the sidewalk as she dragged one of her military-issue duffels behind her, the other slung over her shoulder, heavy with gear and sand and months of dust.

The Manhattan streets were still cloaked in the quiet hush of early morning, a thin veil of frost coating the pavement and car windshields. The house sat quietly beneath the indigo sky, soft golden light spilling from the living room window like a beacon against dawn. The commander could already picture the scene inside–Miles half-asleep, probably in the middle of his first sip of coffee. His wife in the kitchen, wrapped in her robe, already planning breakfast.

She reached the porch and rang the bell. Then, for good measure, gave two short knocks. The wood beneath her knuckles was cold, and the early morning air stung her cheeks. Her silhouette was unmistakable–strong shoulders under the olive green of her combat uniform, face a blend of exhaustion and quiet resolve. Her hair, usually neatly pulled back, had loosened during transit, the bun slightly crooked at the nape of her neck. Still, there was something about her presence–steady, grounded, unshaken–that hadn't changed despite months away.

She waited.

Nothing at first. Just a low hum of silence. Then she heard the telltale shuffle–footsteps. Cautious. Purposeful.

She could practically hear the quiet rustle of movement on the other side, imagining the instant tension in Miles' shoulders. Of course he'd go for the drawer. Of course he'd have the safety off already.

—Miles, she called through the door. It's me. You can lower the weapon. Unless you're planning to shoot me for coming home unannounced.

A beat. Then another.

The lock turned.

And there he was.

Miles Langford stood in the doorway, bleary-eyed, dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, his expression somewhere between disbelief and awe.

—Lexi?

His voice was a rasp of disbelief. She gave him a crooked smile. Her uniform was wrinkled from travel, the bun at the back of her head had come loose, and she smelled like desert air and jet fuel. But there was no mistaking her.

—Hey sunshine.

He pulled her into a hug without hesitation. It was tight and full of unspoken things–relief, frustration, affection. When he finally stepped back, he was shaking his head like he still couldn't believe she was standing there.

—I thought you weren't back for another few days. What the hell, Lex?

—I missed my dog. And you. Maybe. A little.

Behind him, Ava appeared in the doorway, one hand wrapped around her robe, the other holding her phone like she'd just been checking the weather. Her eyes softened instantly at the sight of Alexis standing in the entryway.

—Holy crap. You're home.

The woman didn't wait for permission. She crossed the space in three long strides, nudging her husband aside, and wrapped Alexis up in a hug that felt more like a tether than a greeting. The kind of embrace that said I worried, I missed you, and Thank God all in one.

The SEAL stood still for half a second, caught off guard by the sudden warmth, then allowed herself to lean in. Her arms curled around Ava's back, not too tightly–it had been months of sand, adrenaline, noise, and orders–too many nights without softness, too many days without a single human touch that wasn't tactical or necessary. This? This was grounding.

But then, behind them, a low whine sounded. A shuffle of claws on hardwood.

Alexis lifted her head just as Champ bounded forward from the hallway, tail thumping against the wall as he rushed her with all the unfiltered joy of a dog who'd waited far too long.

Ava let her go with a soft laugh, stepping aside as Gray dropped to her knees without hesitation.

—Hey buddy. Hey! Look at you!

Champ threw his weight at her, licking her cheek, nudging into her chest, tail wagging like a metronome gone haywire. Alexis laughed into his fur, arms wrapping around his thick neck as he tried to climb half into her lap.

—God, I missed you, she whispered into his fur, scratching behind his ears like muscle memory. You've been good?

Miles leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Had he been a little reluctant to keep the dog in the first place–years ago–he now found it hard to imagine him returning home again.

—He's been great. But don't let him fool you–he moped around for weeks. Acted like you abandoned him.

Alexis looked up, her chin resting on the top of Champ's head.

—I mean, technically, I did. But I sent him to the best co-parents out there.

As the man of the house finally closed the front door behind them, his wife reached for their friend's chin. She cupped it gently, tilting Alexis' face toward the morning light filtering through the living room windows.

Ava didn't say anything at first, but her brows knit slightly, her gaze taking in every mark—every faint bruise still fading beneath the surface, the shadow of a healing cut near Alexis's temple, the hollow under her eyes that no amount of coffee could disguise. The once-over wasn't invasive, but it held the kind of silent worry only someone who truly cared could carry without speaking it aloud.

—You look like hell.

Alexis laughed under her breath, reaching up to rub the back of her neck.

—I feel like it, too. Thirty-seven hours, six time zones, and one broken zipper later.

—God, you haven't slept, have you? Ava turned toward the kitchen already. Coffee. You're getting coffee and something to eat before you even think about collapsing somewhere.

—I missed you, too.

She followed the familiar path into the kitchen, where the soft clink of mugs and the hum of the coffee machine filled the silence. The smells, the warmth, even the subtle light seeping through the window above the sink–it all felt achingly ordinary. And right. Like something sacred in its simplicity. The kind of quiet you didn't realize you were starving for until it settled over you like a second skin.

The brunette pulled out a chair and sat without ceremony, her legs grateful for the relief. The heaviness of her boots echoed on the floor, and for a second, she felt like an intruder in her own life. The uniform, the dust still clinging to her sleeves, the desert air still clinging to her lungs–none of it belonged here, and yet, here she was.

Miles sat down opposite her, where he usually ate breakfast every morning. His plate from earlier had barely been touched, now pushed to the side in favor of giving her his full attention. No badge, no case files. Just him. The friend, not the agent.

He folded his hands together, elbows braced on the table, watching her in that measured way of his. Quiet but not distant. Present in the kind of way she never had to second-guess.

—I mean, don't take this the wrong way, but you really do know how to make an entrance.

Alexis arched an eyebrow as she leaned down to give Champ another greeting letting the big dog press against her lap and sniff every corner of her uniform like he was cataloguing where she'd been.

—What can I say? I've got a flair for the dramatic.

—You know you could've called, right?

—And ruin the fun of seeing you in full 'home defense mode'? she teased without looking up. Pretty sure you were two seconds from grabbing the shotgun.

Miles snorted, but she saw the tension release from his shoulders all the same. There'd been worry in his eyes–of course there had. She hadn't told them when she'd be back, mostly because she didn't know until the very last minute. Now, seeing her alive and right there, even with the dark circles and exhaustion on her face, was enough to bring them both a little peace.

Ava returned with a mug in hand and passed it over.

—Black, no sugar, right?

Alexis accepted it like it was gold.

—You're a damn saint.

—You need a shower and about fifteen hours of sleep. But we'll start with caffeine.

She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. She cradled the mug in both hands, grounding herself in the heat. For a second, she didn't say anything. Just took a long sip of coffee and let it settle her. She hadn't realized how badly she missed the taste. Real coffee. Not instant powder. Not canteen sludge.

Home.

*

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 01

Manhattan — SVU Bullpen

01:16 PM

Olivia was buried in paperwork, a half-finished report on her screen, half a cup of coffee gone cold beside her. The bullpen was buzzing with its usual chaos–phones ringing, keyboard tapping, detectives murmuring about interviews and warrants, coffee machines sputtering in the break room.

She sat in her office, its glass walls giving her just enough separation from the noise to think, though not enough to truly escape it. Her eyes were fixed on the report in front of her, but her focus was drifting. Too many things had piled up lately–cases, court dates, Noah's new class schedule, the silence that followed Ed walking out the door. She hadn't allowed herself to feel any of it, really. She'd just kept going.

That was when she felt it.

A shift in the air. A subtle stillness against the usual noise. Like the calm before something important.

She looked up, and her breath caught in her throat.

Alexis Gray was leaning against the doorframe, not saying a word. Dressed in a black raincoat that still held the memory of colder months, the collar turned up slightly. Her hair was down, half-swollen by her coat, and she looked... different. Not because of anything obvious, but in the way someone carries themselves when they've seen something they can't yet talk about.

She'd changed, and yet she hadn't.

Her arms were folded loosely across her chest, one boot crossed over the other, just watching Olivia with the kind of quiet confidence that could only come from someone who knew her far too well. Someone who knew the way she pretended to be okay. Knew what to look for when she wasn't.

Olivia stood slowly, her hand still on the edge of her desk.

—Am I interrupting?

The lieutenant didn't answer right away. Her gaze lingered on Alexis like she needed a few more seconds to believe she wasn't an hallucination conjured by fatigue or wishful thinking. The last time they'd spoken–really spoken–the agent had been in some undisclosed location halfway across the world, under harsh sun and foreign silence. And now, she was here. Just across the room. In a raincoat that smelled like February, in clothes that made her look less like a Navy SEAL and more like someone who had stepped out of a daydream Olivia hadn't known she was having.

The question lingered in the space between them. Am I interrupting?

—No, Olivia said quietly, her voice steadier than she felt. You're not.

Alexis pushed off the doorframe with the kind of effortless grace that had always annoyed and impressed Olivia in equal measure. She stepped inside slowly, letting the door ease shut behind her. Her eyes swept across the office–briefly touching the files, the evidence boards, the badge on the desk–before returning to Olivia.

—I know it's the middle of the day and you're probably drowning in a dozen cases, she said, voice lower now, more careful. I shouldn't have just shown up like this. I almost didn't.

—But you did.

The youngest gave a small shrug, though her hands stayed tucked in the pockets of her coat.

—Yeah. I did.

There was something different in her eyes. A weight. Not from deployment–it wasn't the hardened stare of a soldier who'd seen too much in too short a time. No, this was something else. A tiredness Olivia recognized in herself. The kind that came from emotional distance, from stretching a connection too thin and not knowing if it would hold.

The SVU lieutenant gestured to the chair across from her desk.

—Sit. Please.

Alexis hesitated for only a moment, then walked over and took the seat, crossing one leg over the other with practiced ease. She let out a breath, like she'd been holding it since she walked in.

—I thought maybe I'd feel better once I saw you.

Olivia blinked, surprised by the honesty.

—And... do you?

The SEAL tilted her head, a faint smirk teasing at the corner of her lips.

—I'm still working on it.

That made Olivia smile, faint but real. It was strange, this feeling blooming in her chest—unexpected warmth tangled up in a knot of uncertainty. She'd missed this. Missed her. In ways she hadn't allowed herself to examine too closely.

She leaned back against her desk, her arms loosely folded, though it felt less like a defense and more like a way to keep her thoughts from spilling out too quickly. Alexis had always had a way of doing that–unraveling her without trying, like a knot she hadn't realized she'd tightened herself into. It had been months since they'd stood in the same room, and yet the rhythm between them hadn't vanished. It had only gone quiet.

Alexis shifted slightly in her seat, fingers threading together in her lap. Her eyes scanned the office again, then settled on her friend.

—You look tired, she said, her voice gentler now, less teasing.

—I am. But it's not just the job. It's everything. Ed... the cases we had in the last few weeks. Life.

Gray nodded, like she understood more than Olivia could say out loud.

—I saw your name in some reports. About a shooting. She didn't ask for details. Didn't press. You okay?

—I keep saying I am, Olivia said, her voice low, honest. So maybe one day I will be.

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was that kind of quiet where things had room to breathe, to settle. The kind that hummed with all the things neither had said aloud yet, but were hovering just beneath the surface. Alexis leaned back a little, her posture relaxed but alert, her gaze softening as she studied Olivia in that way she had—like she was reading a page she already knew by heart.

—You could've called, she said after a moment. Anytime.

Olivia looked down at her hands for a beat, then back up. There was a rawness in her expression she didn't bother hiding, not with Lexi.

—I thought about it. Every day, honestly. But you were gone. I didn't want to... get in your head while you were out there.

Alexis exhaled slowly, the breath catching just enough to give her away. She wished she could say she hadn't thought about Olivia, not once. That the desert heat, the operations, the adrenaline had pushed every trace of the lieutenant out of her mind. But the opposite was true. She'd thought about her more than she should've. More than was safe. At night, in the quiet between briefings. In the harsh light of a transport bay, trying to tune out the sound of rotors and heartbeats. Olivia had stayed with her, like a pulse she couldn't ignore.

—That's not how it works. You don't get in the way, Liv.

The words landed softly, but with weight, catching Olivia off guard. She blinked, as if the air shifted just slightly between them, tightening her throat before she could respond. She wasn't used to hearing things like that–not from anyone, not in that tone. No hesitation, no deflection. Just truth. Alexis had always been a woman of few words, but when she spoke like this, it meant something. It carried purpose.

—I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was coming back, she said, voice quieter now. She took a slow breath, her eyes scanning Olivia's face like she was reading for changes–some subtitles shift in emotion, some flicker of what had been and what might still be. I didn't know what version of me would be stepping off that plane. Or what version of you would be waiting.

There was something deeply human in that confession. A vulnerability the SEAL rarely let show. Olivia looked down for a moment, her thumb brushing lightly across the edge of her desk as if grounding herself with the familiar texture.

—I wasn't sure either.

—But I'm here. And you don't have to do this alone. You never did.

That silenced Olivia more than anything. For years, she had carried it all–the weight of her squad, the heartbreak of the job, the responsibility of motherhood, the bruises that never showed on the surface. She'd become so used to being the strong one that it felt unnatural to imagine herself leaning on anyone else. The offer Alexis made wasn't loud or dramatic, but it hit deeper than most declarations ever could. You don't have to do this alone. That wasn't something people usually said to her. Not sincerely. Not without expecting something in return.

Alexis never offered empty comfort. She didn't waste breath trying to say the right thing. If she showed up, if she stayed — she meant it. And Olivia knew, deep down, that the woman standing in her office wasn't just there out of curiosity or to kill time. Alexis had flown under the radar, arrived unannounced, and stood in front of her like a lighthouse cutting through the fog. It meant something.

Before either of them could speak again, a knock tapped lightly at the glass wall behind them. They both turned, and Fin poked his head in with a curious tilt of his brows. His expression shifted when he spotted Alexis.

—Well damn, he said, letting himself grin a little as he stepped inside. Didn't think I'd see you around here again so soon.

The commander lifted an eyebrow and straightened with a quiet chuckle, hands sliding into the pockets of her coat.

—Thought I'd swing by and make sure you hadn't scared off the whole precinct, Fin.

—Still working on it, he shot back, giving her a mock-salute before glancing back at his boss. You got that witness coming in fifteen.

—Thanks, Olivia nodded.

Fin lingered just long enough to glance between the two women, like he could sense the air was heavier than it looked. But he didn't press, just gave them a final nod and stepped out again, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

The moment shifted–subtly, but enough. The outside world was back, tapping at the windows. Reminding them that the clock kept ticking.

Alexis looked toward the door, then back at Olivia. Her gaze lingered, as if she wanted to say something else but wasn't sure how far to push. Instead, she gave a half-turn, one hand still in her pocket, her voice lighter but not empty.

—Dinner sometime?

Olivia hesitated, and Gray watched her with something that wasn't quite hope but wasn't far from it either. The kind of look that said, I'll take what you're ready to give.

—Yeah, the oldest said, the answer quiet but genuine. I'd like that.

A small smile tugged at the corner of Alexis's mouth.

—Good.

She gave a familiar flick of her fingers, the same little wave she used when she left rooms she knew she'd return to. Then she slipped out the door with that steady, unhurried walk of hers.

Olivia stood still for a moment. The space felt different. Not fuller. Not empty. Just... softer. Like something had cracked open inside her without pain. She sat back down slowly, letting her hand brush the edge of her desk where Alexis had leaned moments ago. There was no trace of her, and yet something remained.

The warmth lingered—quiet and stubborn. Like sunlight through a half-open window. Like a door left unlocked, in case someone came back.

Like hope, settling in again.

*

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

[enretrogue]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter Nine • No Man’s Land

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 Crimes talk • young kid missing, mention of alcohol, mention of blood, mention of DNA, mention of violent gesture | Couple breaking up | Some SEAL talk • mention of the desert, mention of bruises and bandaids, mention of military vehicle.

A/N: BASED ON EP.8 – S18 of L&O SVU • Not them starting to flirt 👀 Be ready!

*

SATURDAY, JANUARY 14

Manhattan, SVU Bullpen

10:52 AM

—Because I thought you'd think that I was a bad mother and then when you did find Theo, you would take him away from me.

Nadine Lachere was half-leaning on the conference table, her eyes sharply accusatory. She'd welcomed guests to her home the night before, checked on her six-year-old son at around two o'clock, and gone to bed herself. But when little Theo's babysitter arrived in the early hours of the morning, his bed was empty. He and the carpet at the foot of the bed had disappeared, leaving behind only a thin trail of blood.

Her face was drawn, pale under the fluorescent lighting, and her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the table. Olivia watched from a distance, taking it in–the desperation in Nadine's posture, the defensive set of her jaw. Her statement didn't excuse the missing pieces, didn't make up for the alcohol, the dangerous objects in the apartment, or the man she failed to mention. But it gave the outline of a mother who was more broken than cruel.

The Special Victims Unit had been called in. Amanda and Carisi started by taking stock of the situation and gathering information from the mother and her friend. Such parties were a regular occurrence. There was leftover booze on the coffee table, but also a whole bunch of objects that only belonged miles away from a child. The mother was hungover, visibly disoriented and kept accusing her ex-partner.

It might have been a lead if Fin and Carisi hadn't found the DNA of a certain Gabriel Norton in the boy's bedroom. Lachere had said nothing about the man, the same one with whom she'd had a brief relationship that had ended after a violent gesture on his part. She had only wanted to protect her son, to protect their rights.

—Lower East Side. We're headed there now.

Olivia gave a short nod, letting two of her detectives on their way. She was already stepping forward, ready to further investigate with Rollins, when she spotted movement from the bullpen's entrance–him. Ed Tucker. Dressed in a dark grey overcoat, his usual shirt and tie, and that look on his face like he already knew he wasn't supposed to be there.

—Hey.

Just one word, but it landed heavy. The brunette didn't reply right away. Her body had tensed, every nerve on high alert, already pulled in too many directions. Her jaw flexed slightly as she glanced around—detectives moving, phones ringing, lives hanging in the balance.

She didn't have time for this–not now, not in the middle of a missing child case with more emotional weight than most. She had a boy to find. Parents to reassure. People to interview.

—Now's not a good time, Ed.

—I figured, he said gently. But you hung up on me last night, and then nothing. I didn't hear back. I just needed to know if Noah's okay.

That softened something in her. Not much, but just enough. She nodded once, curt but honest.

—He's fine. He just climbed up on the counter when I turned my back for two seconds. I panicked. I shouldn't have hung up, I just-

She stopped herself. There wasn't time to explain how she'd barely slept, how Theo Lachere's case had sunk its claws into her because something about it scratched too close to home. A missing boy. A trail of blood. A mother with excuses and an invisible history of pain.

Ed nodded, stepping a little closer, lowering his voice.

—I get it. I wasn't trying to interrupt anything. I just... needed to see you.

Olivia didn't answer right away. She glanced toward the back of the squad room–Rollins giving her space, but clearly watching. She gave her a small nod, silently telling her to keep things moving while she dealt with... whatever this was.

She motioned for Ed to follow her and led him into her office, the door clicking softly shut behind them. The space was cluttered with files, scribbled post-its, old takeout containers. The air felt tighter now, the buzz of the squad room muffled by the glass. Olivia crossed her arms and turned to him.

—You can't just show up here, she said, not angry, but tired. So, so tired. I've got a six-year-old boy missing and a mother who's giving us half-truths on a good day.

The IA Sergeant didn't answer right away. His gaze had already drifted to her desk, to the folder sitting just a little out of place from the others. The tab was still visible. GRAY, ALEXIS.

He blinked. Took a step toward it.

—You're still looking at that?

Olivia hadn't meant to leave it there, but it was the last thing she'd touched before the call came in. She had tried to put it out of her mind, to focus on the job, but Alexis's file had a gravity to it. There were too many things that didn't make sense–too many silences, omissions. The absence of a reason in that file, the sheer weight of redacted paragraphs and the unexplained decision to leave the SEALs, was like a splinter she couldn't stop picking at.

She didn't flinch. She picked up her notebook and thumbed through it, pretending to be focused on her notes. She didn't answer right away.

—It's related to current cases, she said eventually, her tone even. We've had two–no, three–recent cases involving vets. I wanted to understand the psychological backgrounds a little better.

Her boyfriend didn't move from his place beside the desk. His arms crossed, and his eyes flicked from her to the file again.

—You're not that curious about every file someone hands you, Liv. You've had that for months.

Olivia's fingers froze on the edge of the paper. She didn't look at him. Didn't want to.

—What are you looking for?

It hung in the air, heavier than it should have been.

She straightened and pushed the file away with the flat of her hand, the soft thunk louder than necessary.

—You wouldn't understand, she murmured. Not as a deflection. But because she didn't know how to explain it. Not yet.

Ed sighed and stepped closer, his voice gentler now. Less defensive.

—Try me.

She looked up at him then. The expression on his face was honest—open, even. And for a second, she wanted to take the out. To tell him it was nothing. To smile, maybe, and move on.

But she couldn't lie to him, not this time. She wouldn't.

—Something's not right in that file, she said finally, her voice quieter now. Alexis doesn't walk away without a reason. She's not the type. Her record is spotless. Commendations, leadership. And then one day, she just leaves.

She exhaled, slowly, pressing her thumb into the edge of the desk.

—She told me she left because it was time. But that's not what her eyes said.

—So this is about a hunch? he asked, measured. Or is it about her?

Olivia's jaw tightened. She hated that he asked. She hated that she didn't know the answer.

—You think there's something going on?

—I think you haven't been here with me for weeks. I think you've been somewhere else. And I think you're trying not to ask yourself why.

She wanted to deny it. To say that work had pulled her in, that Theo's case was taking up space in her mind, that the shooting last week still hadn't left her bones. But none of that would explain why Alexis Gray's name kept circling back in her thoughts, always louder than she wanted it to be.

She didn't know what it was. It wasn't about attraction, not exactly. It was deeper than that. Something she couldn't name, maybe didn't even want to. But it was there, and she was chasing it like a shadow that wouldn't sit still.

–There's nothing going on, she said, voice steady, even if she didn't fully believe it herself. She's gone. I haven't heard from her in months.

—But she's still here.

*

SUNDAY, JANUARY 15

Manhattan — Olivia's Apartment

08:16 PM

The soft hum of the dishwasher filled the background as the quiet of the evening settled around them. The apartment was dim, cozy in the way Olivia always made it at the end of the day–lights low, a candle burning in the kitchen, a blanket folded neatly over the couch. Outside, the wind howled faintly through the cracks around the windows. Winter in the city had dug in deep, bitter and sharp.

The sound of little feet against the floor made the lieutenant smile as she leaned against the corridor wall, arms loosely folded. Noah, ever the bundle of evening energy, barely turned around on hearing his mother's voice. He gave her a grin that was more tooth than obedience and disappeared around a corner. Seconds later, the faucet turned on and a small cup hit porcelain.

Behind her, Ed sat in silence on the couch. He'd taken off his coat, draped it neatly over the armrest, but hadn't settled into the room the way he used to. He looked uneasy, like a guest instead of someone who once made himself coffee in her kitchen without asking. His elbows rested on his knees, fingers laced loosely together, eyes on the hardwood floor as though trying to work up the courage to say what had been weighing on him.

Olivia hesitated as she took in the sight of him: the slope of his shoulders, the silver dusting his hair, the familiar outline of the man who had once made her feel like maybe there could be something after everything she'd endured. Then, with a breath, she stepped back into the room, into the heaviness she hadn't quite been ready to face.

The man looked up the moment she approached, his expression open, tired, and cautiously searching for hers.

—He's getting so big, he said, voice quiet but sincere, as if trying to start with something neutral, something safe.

She nodded, arms crossing lightly over her chest. She didn't sit beside him–she sat across from him instead, and even that space between them felt like an echo of something larger. A gap that had grown slowly, inch by inch, until it had become this quiet thing they both could feel but hadn't dared name.

—Yeah. Too fast some days.

They sat in silence for a few beats, the sound of the TV flickering in the background, some news anchor's voice muffled and irrelevant. The room, once filled with ease and banter, now felt like it held its breath, waiting for one of them to finally crack it open.

Ed leaned forward slightly, clearing his throat.

—Can I ask you something?

She met his eyes, already bracing.

—Is it just me, he said slowly. Or have things... not been great with us lately?

He didn't sound bitter. If anything, he sounded like a man already resigned to hearing something he wasn't ready for. Olivia dropped her gaze to her lap for a second, then looked up again. Her face was calm, composed, but behind that was the familiar restraint she carried like armor.

—I've tried, Ed. Really, I have.

Her words weren't sharp, weren't defensive–they just carried the fatigue of someone who had spent too long trying to hold a shape she wasn't sure fit anymore. She could see the way his expression faltered, the way his brow pinched and his jaw tensed like he was swallowing words he didn't want to say.

—I know. So have I. But I feel like we're not trying at the same time anymore.

Olivia didn't say anything right away. Her chin dipped into the barest nod, slow and heavy, as if the gesture itself weighed more than she could carry. Her throat felt tight, constricted with everything she wasn't saying aloud—because he wasn't wrong. Not about this. They were standing in the same room, breathing the same air, but it was as if they were each tuned to a different signal now, no longer hearing the same rhythm, no longer reaching for the same life.

Whatever had once tethered them together had frayed with time and silence, and maybe it had been unraveling longer than either of them had wanted to admit. Maybe they'd been holding on out of habit. Or hope. Or fear of what letting go might mean. But whatever they were clinging to–it no longer felt enough.

—Is it about me retiring?

The question came out with more weight than he probably intended, but he needed to know. Needed to understand why the woman in front of him had slowly begun to drift like a tide pulling out from shore.

She sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples for a moment before letting her hand drop.

—No, she said. Then, after a beat. Yes. Maybe.

She glanced toward the hallway, where Noah had grown quiet again. The bathroom light still glowed under the door.

—When you said you were ready to put the shield down, it caught me off guard. Like you were already ten steps ahead, planning for a life that didn't involve any of this. The job. The late nights. The calls in the middle of dinner. And I just... I froze. Because I don't know what it means to live without all of that. I've been this job longer than I've been anything else. She looked at him then, more vulnerable than she intended. I got scared. Not because you were ready to move on... but because I wasn't.

Ed stood silently for a moment, eyes softening as he watched her. There was a time when he might've taken her hesitation as rejection, when he might've bristled and pushed back. But not now. Not tonight. Not after the years they both carried on their backs. He saw her clearly—not just the Lieutenant, not just the mother, not just the woman trying to hold it all together. He saw the fear behind her eyes, the way her shoulders dropped when she thought no one was looking.

He stepped a little closer, voice lower now, almost gentle.

—Liv... you don't have to explain. I get it.

—No, Ed, I do. You deserve more than half-truth or me shutting down every time things get too close. You've been patient. And kind. And steady. And I'm- She paused, forcing the words through the tightness in her throat. I'm sorry. I really am.

The sergeant exhaled through his nose, a small, almost wistful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He shook his head once, then reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in the way only someone who truly knew her would dare.

—You don't owe me anything, Liv. Not your guilt. Not an explanation. And definitely not some version of yourself you think I want. You're doing what you need to do–for your son, for your team, for yourself. That's not something to apologize for.

She blinked, holding his gaze. Her eyes were glossy now, but she wouldn't let the tears fall. Not here. Not yet.

—Still... it feels like I'm breaking something. Something that could've worked, maybe, if we'd both just-

—If we'd both just been someone else, Ed finished for her, a trace of a smile cutting through the sadness. Someone in a different time, different place. Yeah. I've thought that too.

She swallowed, nodded slowly. It was the most honest thing they'd said all night. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead–chaste, familiar, with the weight of all the moments they would never have. Then he stepped back and let his hand fall away.

He grabbed his coat off the chair and slid it over his shoulders in practiced silence. The room felt colder now, but not unfriendly. Just... quieter.

He made it almost to the door before turning around one last time. His voice was steady, but the softness in it nearly undid her.

—Take care of yourself, Olivia Benson.

*

SUNDAY, JANUARY 15

Manhattan — Olivia's Apartment

11:03 PM

The apartment was silent.

That thick kind of silence that only settles after an emotional day, when the city hum outside seems miles away and the walls themselves are holding their breath. It was getting late. Olivia sat on the couch, a blanket pulled around her shoulders, half-drunk tea cooling on the side table next to her. The TV was off. The lights were dim. The glow from the hallway, leading to Noah's room, was the only thing casting warmth across the apartment.

The little boy had gone to bed hours ago, just after Ed left. He was curled up under the covers, his favorite stuffed animal close to his chest, lost in dreams his mother wished she could join. But her thoughts were tangled, restless. She had stood by the door long after the man walked out, his last words lingering like perfume: "Take care of yourself.". She had whispered you too, but he hadn't heard it.

Now, she sat still, her phone in her hand again, turning it over slowly like she wasn't sure whether she wanted to reach out or hide from the world. Her thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating. She wasn't even sure what she wanted to say—only that she missed her. Missed talking to her. Missed knowing she was safe.

Finally, with a slow breath, she reached for it again. She opened her messages and stared at the last contact in the thread.

Alexis Gray.

She hadn't heard from her since the brief FaceTime call Miles had told her about a week ago. Alexis had left on deployment on November 1. Since then, just a few breadcrumbs. A call. A nod that she was okay. But no real contact. Not with her.

Her thumb hovered, hesitated, then typed.

Hey. Just checking in. Hope you're okay.

She read it three times before pressing send, then set the phone back down as though expecting silence. Olivia exhaled, rubbed her eyes, and tried to shake the feeling like she was pressing on a bruise she couldn't see.

The buzz of her phone startled her. FaceTime. Alexis.

Her heart jumped. She scrambled to answer it, stepping back into the soft glow of the living room lamp as the screen came to life.

—Well, well, Alexis drawled with a smirk the second the camera focused. I knew it–you really can't live without me, huh?

The lieutenant let out a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Relief coursed through her. She didn't even try to hide it.

—You look like hell, she said instead, but there was a smile curling at the corners of her mouth.

Gray raised a brow and angled the camera. She was wearing full fatigues, her name tag and unit patch visible beneath a few streaks of desert dust. Her face bore new bruises, a small butterfly bandage near her temple, and her hair was pulled back into a tight but slightly messy bun. She was squinting into harsh sunlight. Behind her, Olivia could just make out the edge of a tent, a beige military vehicle, and what looked like an endless stretch of hot, sun-scorched sand.

—Yeah, well, not everyone gets to live in luxury Manhattan apartments with throw pillows and central air.

—Where are you?

Alexis adjusted the phone slightly, panning slowly.

—Can't say. But I can show you a little.

Olivia watched the screen fill with the desert landscape–flat, arid, the kind of place that felt a thousand miles away from everything. Even the sky looked different–brighter, more unforgiving. Heat shimmered off the sand like a mirage.

—Jesus, Olivia muttered. It's so... empty.

—Yeah. But in a weird way, it's quiet. You don't realize how loud the world is until you're away from it.

They settled into a silence that didn't feel awkward. Olivia moved to the couch and sat down, holding the phone with both hands now, as if steadying a thread between them.

—You okay? Alexis asked eventually, her tone softer now. You look exhausted.

The oldest hesitated, her gaze flickering for a moment as if weighing the decision. After a beat, she nodded, but the gesture lacked conviction, her eyes betraying uncertainty she wasn't ready to voice.

—Yeah. I just... It's been a long week.

—That a lie or one of your "I'm-fine-but-not-really" things? You forget, I've seen you shut down before.

The brunette leaned back slightly, her gaze sharp as she watched Olivia, knowing her well enough to miss the signs of something being held back. It wasn't just tiredness in her eyes or the way she clenched her jaw when a certain topic came up–it was something deeper, something that spoke of the quiet struggles she never let anyone in on.

—I broke up with Ed.

Alexis blinked, just once. No big expression. But Olivia noticed the subtle shift—the tightening of her jaw, the softening in her eyes.

—Oh.

She didn't immediately say more, and Olivia appreciated that. No questions. No drama. Just presence.

—It wasn't... dramatic, Olivia continued, voice low. I think we both knew something wasn't right. We just didn't say it out loud for a while.

The commander leaned back, phone angled so that only her face remained on screen, with the faded blue sky stretching behind her.

—Do I need to find him and beat his ass?

Olivia let out a laugh, a quiet, breathy sound that caught even her off guard. It had slipped out before she could stop it—surprised.

—No. Lexi, come on.

—Just checking. I've got boots and a full tank of pettiness.

She laughed again, softer this time. And when it faded, her face relaxed into something more honest.

—I feel bad. Like I broke something that maybe could've worked. If I just tried harder. But... I don't know. It never felt... right-right. Just good on paper. Safe.

Alexis nodded slowly.

—Safe's not enough. Not for someone like you.

There was a stretch of quiet again. Olivia looked at her, really looked. At the sweat on her forehead, the smudge of dirt near her cheek, the quiet resilience in her expression. The way she always felt like the only person in the world who got it, without needing the words.

—You're more than just a colleague, you know, Olivia said finally, her voice hushed.

Green eyes didn't leave hers. Gray didn't smile or joke this time. She just nodded, once.

—Yeah. I know.

—Is this insane?

—If it is... we're in it together.

The wind picked up behind the SEAL, lifting grains of sand into the dry desert air. Her silhouette shifted slightly as she turned her head, instinctively responding to the sudden gust. For a moment, her features were framed against the open sky, bathed the strong embers of the still rising sun.

She looked past the screen, her gaze scanning the vast emptiness beyond the tent—alert, even here, even now. Then she turned back, her eyes settling on the camera again, steady and sharp, like she hadn't missed a beat.

—I've got to go. Another transport's coming in.

—Stay safe, Olivia said, a little too quickly.

Alexis gave her a small smile, softer now. More vulnerable.

—I always do better when I know you're watching.

*

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

[enretrogue]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter Eight • The Heart of the Matter

TAGLIST FORM

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary: Alexis finally gives some news after two months. Olivia has dinner with Ed and realizes that he doesn't consider the same future as her.

Content Warning: Usual SVU & Violent Crimes talk • Mention of the Religion Case, Verses, Murder, SA, Bible,  killer being named The Preacher, mention of serial killing, mention of Quantico

*

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 4

Manhattan, LANGFORD HOUSE

07:42 AM

The kitchen was still half-dark, lit only by the dim winter light filtering through the frosted window and the slow steam curling from two mugs of coffee. The scent of toasted bread hung in the air, untouched. It was one of those slow, peaceful mornings, undisturbed by criminals or the boundless energy of a little girl.

Ava sat at the table, legs curled beneath her, flipping through her school program for the day ahead. She had tidied up the classroom of everything connected with the end-of-year festivities. No more Christmas trees, lights or window stickers. She had to regain the focus of all these little human beings on the essentials–language, motor skills and sociability. All this before another holiday.

Across from her, Miles leaned into his laptop, his expression tense–eyes tracking the blinking cursor on the screen as if willing it to turn into something else. Anything else. He hadn't slept much. Not since before the holidays. Not since the Preacher. Not since Alexis left.

He had worked on the case alongside the Special Victims Unit, day and night, no matter how tired he was or how much he locked himself away in his Bible again. He spent most of his time at the 16th precinct, squeezed onto a piece of Rollins' desk, under the scrutinizing eye of Rafael Barba. Carisi knew the subject well too, but had a completely different perspective. The Preacher, as the press had named him, had in him all the darkness Miles had tried to escape all his life.

He'd struck again, leaving more verses behind, just enough to mock the whole team on his tail. He'd gone after two other families outside New York, and had found a new target. Again. One morning, just as Miles was about to go mad, his unit chief, Reynolds, put him out of his misery. The case was taken away from him. It now belonged to the Quantico team.

And with that came Miles' breath again.

As he scrolled through the headlines, not really reading, just keeping his hands busy, the screen blinked with a soft ping. Miles blinked, too, surprised. A video chat request lit up the screen, the name making his chest tighten.

ALEXIS GRAY

He answered before the moment could pass. The video feed flickered to life, grainy and rough from distance, then sharpened just enough to catch Alexis' face, a backdrop of grey sky and blurred aircraft looming behind her.She wore her fatigue jacket half-zipped over her body armor, a comms earpiece slung around her neck. Her hair was tied back haphazardly, wind whipping strands loose across her forehead. Bruises darkened the curve of her cheekbone and a butterfly bandage held tight to her brow–but she smiled, crooked and easy.

—Well damn, Miles said, almost on a breath. Look who decided to check in.

—Good morning to you too, sunshine.

The agent had almost never enjoyed such friendly bickering. His partner could have called him any number of names, he was just happy to see her safe and sound.

—Lex, thank God. We've been climbing walls over here.

Ava was already leaning toward the screen, relief warming her voice. She had left her chair for the one next to her husband, so close just so she could be fully in frame too.

—Yeah, I figured. Alexis said. Sorry. It's been–hell.

Her voice cracked faintly on the word, like it carried more weight than she meant to let on. Behind her, there was the low roar of an engine starting up and the bark of orders being shouted, muted by distance. Her eyes flicked over her shoulder. She didn't have much time.

—How are you, hun'?

—Alive. Mostly in one piece. Can't really complain.

—What happened?

Miles' question was simple. He watched his friend touch the bandage with a slight wince, her lips sealed as the words sought meaning. She could never reveal anything. Nor a place. Nor a date. Let alone a name.

—It was just a small complication. We got the objective. Everyone made it back.

Ava softened her tone, face still taut with worry. The commander had already been out on at least three deployments since they first met. Short periods here and there. Not to mention that famous week of annual training. It should have been a relief to see the young woman return each time, but the couple held their breath with each new departure.

—We've got Champ, by the way. He's doing good. Sweet as ever. Sleeps by Charlie's bed every night.

That pulled a true smile from Alexis, tired but genuine. She had done everything to get the dog out of his army assignment. Everything to bring him home, safe, away from danger, away from anything that could have cost him his life. It had already been six years since she first adopted him. Four since they had both had a taste of civilian life.

—Thank you for taking him in. He's... he's all I've got when I'm not out here.

—He misses you, Ava said. So does Charlie.

—How is she?

The little girl hadn't gone a single day without asking about her auntie Lexi. From the minute she opened her eyes to the minute she closed them again at Champ's side in the evening. She wanted to climb on her aunt's lap when she came to the house, run after her in the park, and get a few treats on the sly.

—Thriving, Miles answered. Still calls you her hero. Demanded to draw you in full FBI gear with a cape last week.

That laugh–the one that only surfaced around the Langfords–bubbled up, raspy and warm. Alexis rarely laughed in such a way. She was always so serious, so focused on her surroundings. It was only something she allowed herself in the heart of their home–in the heart of her closest family.

—Tell her she got the outfit right.

They stood in the warmth of it for a moment. The kind of quiet that felt full, not heavy. Two months away and yet just a few seconds were almost enough to make them forget all about it.

—Lex... Ava hesitated. There was a case while you were gone.

It wasn't her place to explain such a thing, but she knew Miles well enough to know he wouldn't say anything himself. He glanced toward her sharply, but didn't speak. He couldn't.

—What kind of case?

Alexis straightened slightly, instantly more alert despite the distance between them. She saw Ava looking toward her husband, concerned. He didn't try to stop her.

—Family, she said quietly. They were murdered. The daughter and mother were assaulted. The father and son were forced to watch. It was... bad.

Miles' jaw tensed, but he kept his gaze low. It was enough to alert his partner. If he had nothing to say, it meant everything.

—He left verses, Ava continued, her voice gentler now. Biblical passages. Written on the walls. The floors. Mirrors.

There was a flicker of understanding in Alexis' eyes. She looked toward her partner, watching the tension in his shoulders. She knew everything about him, from his unconditional love for his wife to his darkest secrets. Under normal circumstances, she would have taken the lead on the case, forced him to go home early, let her handle things her way.

—Miles, she said quietly. You're okay?

—I didn't want you worrying about it out there, he confessed, voice low. I know how you are. You'd want to come back. You'd blame yourself for not being here.

She didn't deny it. He was right. Family was family, and nothing could stop her from coming home. Since her move to New York, Alexis had taken Miles under her wing. They were glued at the hip. She had his six and he had hers.

—You're not alone, you know. Even when it feels like it.

The aircraft behind her let out another sharp hiss. She turned her head toward it, nodding slightly off-screen. Time went by too quickly. Soon, she would be back on a flight to another destination. The last one, with hope.

—You should've told her.

Alexis blinked, her eyes finding the two faces on her screen. There was so little time left before she had to hang up. Was this really something the man wanted to dwell on?

—Told who?

—Benson.

The commander looked away for a split second, like the name had brushed too close to something she didn't want touched. She knew that sooner or later Miles would bring the subject up. But she had so little time.

—I didn't think it was relevant.

—She's asked about you. A lot.

—She's my colleague.

Miles gave her a look. The one that seemed to say 'you really think I'm going to believe that'. He had spoken with Olivia. Many times. He knew about the help his partner was providing, about the dinners spent in the Lieutenant's office, about the nights of work.

—Come on, Lex.

—I'm serious.

—Yeah, and I'm not blind.

Alexis sighed and rubbed the side of her face, wincing slightly when her fingers brushed a bruise. She didn't want to have this conversation. Not now. Not ever. Olivia Benson was only a colleague from an NYPD unit. They had already worked with the police. She didn't see the problem.

—There's been talk, Miles said slowly. About her and Tucker. Trouble in the air.

The woman frowned but didn't react much. That was the thing about her—she didn't show anything she didn't want you to see. He saw it anyway. The way her shoulders went a little stiffer, the way she didn't blink.

—Okay, she shrugged. Why are you telling me this?

Miles didn't answer right away. He just studied her through the grainy video feed, head tilted slightly, brows pulled together. She hated that look–the one that said he saw too much, knew her too well, could read her without her needing to speak.

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

—Because I know you. And I know you pretend like it doesn't mean anything. But I saw the way you started to open up around her. The way you looked at her.

—It's not like that.

Ava tilted her head, leaning closer to the screen. Since her husband had told her all about the two women, she was just as invested as he was. It was simple to recognize the signs when you knew a person as well as they knew Lexi.

—Isn't it?

Their friend glanced toward the plane again. Her ride was clearly getting ready to board. The noise picked up again in the background.

—I leave. That's what I do, she said at last, quieter now. It's easier that way.

—Easier doesn't always mean better, Lex.

She didn't answer that. Instead, she shifted the phone in her hand, her fingers tightening a little over the case. Her voice softened again, this time with a thread of genuine care.

—Tell Charlie I'll be home soon. And give Champ a treat for me, or he'll hold a grudge.

—We love you, Ava said, firm and sure.

Miles barely had time to remind her to be safe. She was gone. The screen blinked black, leaving them in a familiar quiet. The kind they didn't welcome, but knew how to hold space for.

—She always comes back.

*

SATURDAY, JANUARY 7

Manhattan, Vanessa's Restaurant

08:16 PM

The gentle hum of conversation floated above the low clinking of cutlery and glasses. Vanessa's, nestled near the heart of Manhattan, carried the kind of upscale coziness Olivia had always preferred–dim lighting, cloth napkins, waiters who knew your name, and no need to shout to be heard. Outside, the streets were slick with slush, the kind of wet cold that sunk into your bones. Inside, it was warm, nearly too warm. The kind of comfort that softened things you weren't ready to face.

Olivia sat across from Ed, a nearly empty plate in front of her–pan-seared halibut, barely touched. His fork scraped gently across his dish, the last bites of steak and roasted potatoes disappearing as he ate with quiet, deliberate motions. The wine had been poured, the candle flickering between them had burned low, and it had the feeling of a night winding down. Or maybe, it had never really started.

Ed set down his fork and leaned back slightly, hands resting around the base of his glass. He'd been sitting on something all evening. The Lieutenant could tell–she always could. The way he kept glancing past her, as though watching the window rather than looking at her directly, had only confirmed it.

—I've been thinking, he said finally, voice low, steady. About putting the shield down.

Olivia blinked slowly. She looked up fully now, trying to read his expression.

—You mean... retiring?

—Yeah. Not just from IAB. From the job.

The words hung between them, weighty and final in a way he didn't try to soften. She searched his face, unsure if he wanted her to talk him out of it–or just listen. He looked tired, not physically, but in the way someone does when they've spent too long on the front lines of something they no longer believe in.

—I've done the work, Liv. All of it, Ed continued. And I'm not ashamed of that. But I keep thinking... I don't want to keep running until there's nothing left for me. I want mornings without a pager. I want to sleep without my phone under the pillow.

His smile was faint, but it lacked apology.

—I want peace.

Olivia sat back slightly in her chair, her thumb brushing unconsciously across the surface of her wine glass. She'd heard people say it before—about needing out, about being tired. Hell, she'd said it once or twice herself. But Ed wasn't just talking about leaving the job. He was talking about a whole new kind of life.

—You never said you were considering it.

—I've been sitting with it for a while, he admitted. And not just stepping away from the job... but maybe finally starting something real. Something stable.

He reached slightly across the table—not touching her, but close enough to suggest them. The idea of a life outside the NYPD. One where Olivia wouldn't need to keep her badge in her coat pocket or sleep with her phone beside the pillow. One where they'd share mornings instead of brief evenings. There was gentleness in his expression, but also something firm. Intentional.

—I think I want that. With you.

Her phone buzzed on the table, lighting up. A single vibration—just a message. Olivia's eyes flicked down, and all at once the restaurant, Ed's  voice, the clink of forks—it all softened into the background.

Miles Langford.

Her heart paused, her hand closing over the phone before she could think better of it.

Got a call from Alexis. She's okay. Busted up, butterfly bandages, looks like hell, but she's okay. Boarding another military flight. Can't say where.

She stared at the words, rereading them once, then again. Alexis. Gone since the morning after Halloween. No goodbye, no details, just one of those black-op disappearances Miles couldn't explain and she couldn't ask about.

She didn't realize her thumb had tightened against the screen until she felt the ache.

Across the table, Ed watched her carefully.

—Everything alright?

She lifted her eyes, blinking like she'd just returned to the room.

—Yeah. Just... work.

He didn't push. Not immediately. But the lightness from before was gone. The tone had shifted.

—You've been distracted lately, he said after a moment. Always at the precinct. Always somewhere else.

Olivia exhaled slowly, forcing the phone face-down on the table.

—I'm trying. I really am.

—I know you are. But this–us–it doesn't work unless we both show up for it.

She nodded once, fingers curled around the rim of her cup again. Her voice was quiet.

—You're talking about a whole life change. I just... I wasn't expecting that tonight.

Ed tilted his head, almost surprised.

—We've been circling for months.

—I know, she murmured. And you're right. You deserve something stable. Something that doesn't leave you waiting at restaurants.

Her boyfriend watched her with the kind of patience that came from years on the job–he didn't press, didn't demand answers. But the weight of what he'd said still hung between them like steam off their untouched dinner plates.

—I meant it. I want to build something that isn't just chasing ghosts through this city. I want something real. With you.

Olivia looked up. There was no question that she cared. That was never the issue. But the way her jaw tightened, the subtle crease between her brows—it was the look of someone who knew she couldn't give what was being asked of her, not the way he wanted it.

Maybe that was part of what had been missing all along. Not just timing. But connection.

Real, terrifying, unspoken connection.

*

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

[enretrogue]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter Seven • HAUNT YOU EVERYDAY

TAGLIST FORM

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

⚠️DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary:

Content Warning: SVU & Violent Crimes talk • Mention of a Crime Scene, police talk, murder, bodies, SA, victims (adults and children), blood, violence and abuse, a killer| Mention of classified deployment | Mention of the Navy | BIG WARNING FOR THIS • Religious Talk • using religion as a way to punish and purify, mention of the Bible, being punished with a wooden spoon and soap, mention of Bible verses, using verses as weapons, committing a crime and using a religion to excuse it, mention of words such as sermon or preaching, explicit talk about being punished by an abusive parent.

A/N: Do not hesitate to share your opinion! A big thank you to those reading. Hope you have a nice day/night. ALSO, YOU CAN GET TAGGED BY FILLING THE FORM 👆🏻

*

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 4

Upper East Side — Manhattan

11:56 PM

The street was unnervingly quiet for a crime scene.

Midnight on a Sunday should've meant peace for this sleepy Upper East Side neighborhood–kids asleep, TVs flickering behind curtained windows, families winding down from the weekend. Instead, the house at the end of the block was ringed with cruisers and crime scene tape, flashing lights turning the early December frost into a strobe of red and blue. Officers moved with subdued urgency, technicians already setting up their equipment. A faint hum of radios and murmurs buzzing in the background like static.

Miles parked a few houses down, killed the engine, and stepped out into the cold. He slammed his car door shut, shoulders hunched against the bite of the air. The moment his boots hit the pavement, something in him shifted. That old, tight coil in his gut wound itself back up. He didn't need to see the bodies to know what kind of scene it was. The officer's voice over the phone had been clipped and grim. He hadn't asked for details. He didn't need them.

For the first time in a long time, he headed for the scene alone. He had been able to drive his own car, park as he pleased and hadn't even been allowed a few dry remarks on the way. His partner wasn't there. For once, she wasn't the one stepping out of the driver's seat, already halfway toward the scene before he could even close the door.

It felt wrong.

His shoes scuffed against the pavement as he made his way toward the crime scene tape, flashing his badge to the uniform standing guard before slipping underneath. The house, an elegant brownstone with Christmad lights already strung along the porch railing, looked almost untouched from the outside. But Miles knew better. He knew what kind of horrors hid behind walls that should've been safe.

Just at the foot of the front staircase, Olivia and Fin stood, deep in quiet conversation. The call had dragged them out of bed too, right into the city's paralyzing cold. They'd had their fair share of murders and shady cases, but this one was much more typical of what the FBI duo was used to. If they were there, it was on the grounds of clear signs of abuse.

The wind was tugging lightly at Olivia's coat, brushing away the scarf wrapped snugly around her neck. She looked rigid–arms crossed against her chest, jaw set–but calm. Her eyes gave her away. She didn't look at the agent right away, scanning the street behind him, the shadows between the cars, the stretch of sidewalk that remained stubbornly empty. Only when he was a few feet away did her gaze settle on him, brows subtly lifting.

—Just you?

Her voice was low, carried more by cold air and instinct than actual curiosity. Miles nodded, stepping up on the sidewalk, shoulders still squared against the biting wind.

—Yeah. Just me tonight.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that lingered longer than it should have. Olivia's eyes searched his face for a second too long before glancing again toward the street, her brow furrowing.

—Gray's not with you?

Fin, reading the tension in the air with a veteran's ease, gave a slight nod and slipped inside, leaving them under the dull glow of the porch light and the howling wind that made the railing creak. The agent shifted his weight and looked past Olivia for a second, as if trying to organize his thoughts against the icy ache settling in his bones. Then he exhaled, long and slow.

—She left. November first. Got called up.

The words seemed to hang there for a second, carried between them by cold air.

Olivia blinked, lips parting.

—Left?

—Yeah. Navy. Classified deployment, he said, his voice lower now, edged with something that wasn't quite irritation–more like resignation. They didn't give her much time. They called her on Halloween night and she was gone by sunrise. Not a lot of room for goodbyes.

The wind blew again, harsher now. The SVU Lieutenant turned her face slightly into it, adjusting her scarf as she did, but not before Miles saw the flicker of something across her face. Surprise, of course–but also a note of something more personal, more subtle. Disappointment, maybe. It passed quickly, but he caught it.

—That was over a month ago, she murmured.

He hesitated. His breath came out in a puff as he tilted his head slightly, studying her.

—She didn't tell you?

Olivia met his eyes, and for a second, the streetlight caught something guarded in her expression. Her hands were buried deep in her coat pockets, but her voice had lost its evenness, just slightly.

—No. I thought... I don't know. I thought she might've said something. We'd been talking more, working more together. She didn't mention a word.

Miles pressed his lips together and looked away, dragging his gloved hand down his face before glancing toward the taped-up door.

—That's Lexi. She carries most of her life like it's classified, even when it isn't. Doesn't mean she doesn't want to talk–it just means she doesn't always know how.

Olivia gave a small nod, but her jaw was tense. She looked back down the street again as if she expected Alexis to materialize from the dark, a few minutes late, brushing snow off her jacket with a sheepish smile. But there was no movement. No shadow. Just cold.

—She was getting good at it, you know, Olivia added softly. The talking.

Miles didn't reply right away. He just stood there, eyes fixed on the distant shadows curling along the sidewalk. All he could think about was Alexis and the years of knowing her in ways few people ever would. He was her partner, he knew how her mind worked, how she compartmentalized every emotion with surgical precision, how she'd rather carry a burden alone than risk unloading it on someone else.

He'd spent long enough beside her to understand that Alexis didn't disappear to keep people out–she disappeared to keep them from having to carry pieces of her too. And yet, despite all that, she had started showing up in ways that surprised him.

She had been opening up, bit by bit, with Olivia. He'd seen it happening, watched her soften in ways most people didn't even realize she could. So when the Lieutenant said she'd thought Alexis might've told her, that she was getting better at talking, it didn't surprise him. It just made the silence she left behind feel that much heavier.

—What are we looking at?

He forced her to refocus, pulling both of their attention back toward the house. Olivia shifted, as if only remembering about the case.

—Family of four. Parents, teen daughter, little boy. All of them found dead by the father's brother who stopped by to drop off Christmas lights. The door was unlocked. Nothing's stolen, but...

The sights were still vivid in her mind. The bodies had been carefully moved and placed so as to leave a message. Blood had splattered everywhere, leaving trails on the floor. Both mother and daughter had suffered violence and abuse before being killed.

—Brutal doesn't begin to cover it. Some kind of religious undertone–scripture carved into the floors, handwritten notes on the walls. It's...

—Twisted.

*

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 6

Langford House — Manhattan

01:14 AM

The kitchen table looked more like a murder board than the heart of a family home.

Printouts and photographs had taken over the soft floral tablecloth Ava insisted on keeping year-round. Bible verses were scrawled on yellow legal pads, half a dozen highlighters lay uncapped, bleeding color into the wood beneath them. A tableau of violence was all Miles could see. Each evidence captured the grotesque aftermath of a family's annihilation: the father, the mother, the daughter and son, their lives extinguished in an almost ritualistic way.

The words haunted him. Words written in blood and etched into skin, words meant to condemn, to purify, to punish. His fingers traced the edges of the Bible that lay among the files–his own relic from a past life, its pages annotated with the scribbles of a younger, more devout boy. He could still remember the sting of the wooden spoon against his skin, the taste of soap as his father forced it into his mouth to 'cleanse the lies'.

"He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is diligent to discipline him"

"Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him."

Phrases his father had used like weapons.

Phrases Miles had once memorized alongside spelling words and the Pledge of Allegiance.

He drew in a breath through his nose, held it, and exhaled slowly. The silence of the house pressed down on him, different from the usual quiet that came with the late hour. This was something heavier. Oppressive. Every page on the table felt like a doorway into a past he thought he'd buried deep enough to forget.

Until this case.

Until a killer began using the same distorted gospel to justify atrocities.

Four victims in one day. Two other families targeted in another state. All with the same ritualistic pattern: scripture carved into walls, Bibles left open to marked passages, the same words whispered by the dying girl who clung to life long enough to speak.

"He said it was for God."

Miles rubbed at his neck, fingers pressing into the tense muscles just above his collarbone. The killer wasn't just quoting scripture–he understood it. Twisted it with precision. This wasn't zealotry. This was personal. Educated. Cold.

And somehow, that made it worse.

From upstairs, the house creaked—a soft, sleepy sigh of wood in the winter wind. Outside, December had buried the neighborhood in frost. The windows were fogged at the edges, and despite the heat running low, there was a chill in the air that made his skin feel tight.

The stairs creaked behind him. He didn't need to turn to know who it was. The steps were slow, careful, almost too quiet. Ava had always moved that way when she didn't want to startle him—especially on nights like this.

—You're still up, she said softly, padding barefoot across the tile.

She wore one of his old shirts, sleeves pulled down over her hands, her voice the kind of warm and low that only came when she was worried.

—I could say the same about you.

He glanced back with a tired half-smile, taking in sight the woman he had once promised everything to. No matter the years, Ava was still the most beautiful woman in the world–even when she wore that concerned frown.

—I woke up and you weren't in bed.

She paused, looking at the mess across the table. Her eyes moved over the photos, the notes, the quotes underlined again and again. Miles had been called abruptly on Sunday night. She'd seen him leave in a hurry and, for once, hadn't had the chance to be reassured when spotting his partner's car in front of the house. Alexis hadn't returned yet. He had left on his own. If he hadn't said anything about the affair during the evening, Ava already knew it was nothing ordinary.

—It's the case?

—Yeah. He reached for the legal pads and pushed it a few inches to the side. It's the case.

Ava didn't need to ask what kind. He saw it in her eyes—recognition. Sadness. That edge of protective fire that always sparked when the past tried to claw its way into their lives again.

—He's not just using the Bible. Miles dragged a hand down his face with a sigh. He knows it. Word for word. Book, chapter, verse. He's not guessing, Ava. He's quoting it like a sermon. Like he's preaching.

She came to stand behind him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pressing her cheek to the top of his head. It was quiet for a moment: her breathing with him, him trying to breathe at all.

—It's hitting too close.

The agent didn't deny it.

He let the silence stretch.

—You remember when I was ten and I lied about breaking the garage window?

Ava's arms only tightened. She had heard the story before. It was part of the secrets they preferred to confide in each other rather than turning them into threats to their happiness.

—He washed my mouth out with soap, Miles said, barely above a whisper. Told me it would cleanse the sin. That lying was the Devil's tongue. Then he made me read Proverbs 12 aloud. Every verse about honesty. Over and over. Until I could recite it without stuttering.

His wife exhaled softly, her hand moving to the back of his neck, warm and steady. She wanted to envelop him, keep him away from all that darkness. It was all he'd ever known before her. All that continued to haunt him.

—He's not here anymore, Miles.

—But someone like him is. He looked up to her, jaw clenched. Someone who thinks pain is redemption. That blood is sacrifice. That fear equals obedience.

She stepped to one side, her soft, slender hands wrapping around his face. Somehow, she could still see in him the young boy she'd known. Timid. Haunted.

—And you're not that boy anymore. You're not a scared kid trying to survive in that house. You're the one protecting people now.

—I just... he hesitated. I wish she was here.

Ava stilled, her thumb resting on the man's dark eyebrow. She didn't need any clarification. She just knew. There were three women in Miles' life. His wife. His daughter. And–

—Lexi. She gets this kind of broken logic. She sees through it. And she'd know how to put herself between me and this damn spiral.

The brunette sat down across from him, gently nudging his coffee aside to take his hands.

–She'll come back, baby. You know that.

—Yeah, but when?

His voice cracked before he caught it, and he turned away, embarrassed. He loved to joke about Gray being a ticking time bomb and how she'd had that effect when she arrived at the New York Bureau. But one thing he never said was how much this woman had become family.

—She left the day after Halloween. You've been holding your breath ever since.

—I didn't realize how used to her being around I'd gotten until she wasn't. She's always just... there. No matter what. Even when I don't ask.

—Because she sees you. The real you. She doesn't flinch away from it.

—I don't want Charlie to grow up seeing that side of me, he said suddenly. The side that can't sleep. That spirals into these memories and won't let go.

Ava reached across the table, suddenly puzzled by one of the Bible verses on one of the pages. She tapped on it, bringing the legal pad closer.

—For the Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit. That one never made the cut when your father was preaching, did it?

—No. It didn't.

*

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