Chapter Text
Alex hates days like these. When her cases are up to date, several times over, allowing her tightly controlled mind to veer off on a distinctively uncomfortable tangent...
Stop! She silently chastises, forcing herself up from her desk chair before she snaps the pencil in her iron grip. Alex begins to pace her office, before she catches herself. She looks out to her fledgling counsellors, deeply immersed in their work. Still, she lowers the blinds, not wanting her subordinates thinking the Ice Queen is anything but cool, calm, collected.
Once the blinds shield her from view, Alex feels a sharp pang of relief at this small privacy.
She knows how people look at her, talk about her:
Isn’t she the ADA who got shot?
No wonder she’s such an aloof bitch after...
No, she’s always been an aloof bitch.
Does she ever show any emotions besides that resting bitch face?
Wonder what her scar looks like...
She’s changed.
Ice Queen...
Alex shakes her head, her flaxen mane spilling over her shoulders, as she tries to stem these unhelpful thoughts.
One... inhale... two... exhale... three...
It’s not working. She unbuttons her collar, suddenly feeling hot, constricted. Just breathe Cabot. Breathe!
She hates the flood of helplessness, of shame that consumes her, every time these feelings force themselves on her. She loosens yet more buttons and fans her shirt out to try to lessen the weight constricting her struggling lungs.
Alex stops pacing, knowing the action is quickening her rioting heart. She notices the tremor in her hands as she lifts a glass of water, hoping the cool liquid will still her anxiety.
It doesn’t. Think Cabot. Think! She tries, desperate to halt her panic before she completely loses herself.
If only her colleagues knew the iron-willed Alexandra Cabot is only ever a hairs breath away from a debilitating panic attack.
An idea strikes her. Paper bag... it’s got to work... TV shows...
She reaches for her lunch bag, emptying the contents haphazardly before placing it over her nose and mouth, taking as deep a breath as her nerves will allow.
It calms her surging adrenaline only slightly.
Fuck! She throws her glasses on to her desk and pinches the bridge of her nose.
I’m not dying... this will pass... just... breathe...
Her body glistens with sweat as she parks herself on the couch and lowers her head between her legs, in one last futile attempt to stop herself passing out.
Not here... please... not here... breathe... Cab... ot...
Passing out at home was one thing. Passing out here, at work, close to people who look up to her unwavering, iron control, would humiliate Alex beyond comprehension.
One... inhale... two... exhale...
As she tries desperately to keep the darkness from invading her senses, Alex starts flicking the ever present hairband at her wrist, hoping, praying this will jolt her back to reality.
But the world around her is slowing down; the deafening thud of her own heart beat, her only companion.
No... return... oh God... no!
The darkness seeps into her blurred vision, slowly but surely blinding and muffling her senses until...
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Her eyes flutter open, her head hammering, her mind disorientated.
Dawning suddenly hits, the clarity invading her senses like a knife to the gut. Alex dry heaves, leaning forward reflexively as her stomach revolts against her. She raises a shaky hand to her brow, wiping the sheen of sweat that has accumulated there.
Alex reacclimatizes to her current state, her current environment.
I’m not dead... breathe... in... out...
No one saw this...
Alex uses the arm of the couch to lever herself up; her nausea threatening again as she near stumbles to her desk.
What time is it? she asks silently, her heart instantly jumping with panic once more, as she checks her computer clock.
3:30... must have been out less than five minutes, she breathes a sigh of relief, knowing with certainty that she hasn’t missed any meetings. No one would have noticed her absence in five minutes. She breathes in deeply, searching for and finding a pocket mirror in her attaché bag.
She looks at herself fleetingly. Disgust fills her veins at the obvious fear, pain and lack of control staring back at her. Alex snaps it shut and throws it back in her bag.
She’s a mess and she knows it. I’ve lost it. I’m losing my mind, she chastises feebly before catching herself; hating the insipid shadows of self pity.
Alex threads her fingers thru her golden locks, trying to figure out how to slip out of here without being noticed, caught, outed. Shit! She knows she’ll have to pass too many suspicious glances, too many wagging tongues that will make up any number of fictional scenarios the minute she’s out of ear shot. Fuck!
A knock at the door splinters her nerves. Her head snaps up at the unwelcome intrusion as she quickly attempts to brush herself into some semblance of normal.
‘Come in,’ she finally responds, knowing certain people will force the door if she doesn’t reply near immediately. Alex hates how they do that, though she feigns unaffected annoyance at best. Don’t show them any emotions because one will lead to another. Ice Queen.
Jim Steele pokes his head through the door. ‘Hi,’ he says, walking in and closing the door behind him.
Alex gives him a cool, wary glance in welcome.
‘I just wanted to check in on you. You’re still newly back and with the blinds... I thought...’ he confesses as Alex swallows thickly, hating that he, and everyone else, keeps asking her if she’s okay.
It’s not only an intrusion into her personal life, but the sheer fact so many people, most of them acquaintances at best, feel it’s their right to pry because her face was unwillingly on the front page of every national newspaper.
Slain ADA...
Is my state of mind that obvious? she takes a breath.
‘Jim, I accepted this post because I’m certified fit for duty,’ she states coldly, her tone radiating: back off.
His bosses response leaves Jim open mouthed with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry Alex.’ He taps her desk with the file in his hand, as he stares at her a moment too long.
Alex’s hackles rise. ‘Anything else?’ she retorts too sharply.
Jim turns away and swallows his ready counter, realising it’s best not to poke The Cabot today.
‘That Roderick case...’
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Alex finally walks through her door at 10:40 that evening. The Roderick case had been severely underworked, resulting in Jim hurriedly calling a recess to save the young counsellor, and so the DA's office, from completely losing face.
It was only once Jim left her office that Alex realised she hadn't buttoned up or tucked in her shirt post-panic. She quickly deduced she hadn't completely embarrassed herself, but she was still shaken by the fact her subordinate had seen more flesh then he deserved.
She shakes her head to clear her mind of work, Jim, today.
Alex realises she’s exhausted, as she checks her answerphone. Three from Arthur Branch requesting a call back in the morning, one from Jim about the Roderick case and finally, inevitably, one holding the voice of Olivia Benson.
Alex falls into the nearest chair on hearing the dulcet tones of her ex-colleague and friend enquiring, as she always did, as to her welfare.
Olivia had somehow found out Alex was no longer in witness protection after Liam Conners was extradited to Ireland.
God knows how she found out.
The shame of not telling Liv herself, as well as the very real humiliation that she was struggling to hold herself together, left Alex with an unenviable dilemma of wanting to see the detective with every fibre of her soul, but being mortified at the thought of the razor sharp Olivia Benson detecting the slightest hint of unease in her, that she would no doubt surmise within milliseconds of hearing or seeing her.
No. It’s not going to happen. Though, Alex had to admit the likelihood of bumping into the detective had risen significantly on her appointment as EADA for the homicide decision.
Alex rubbed her temple to try to ease the pressure agonising her as she hits the delete button. To do otherwise would lead to hours of pressing the replay button until her muscles screamed for her to unfold herself.
Pathetic.
She ignores the other messages as she forces herself out of the obsessive listening chair.
Alex discards her coat and bag on the counter top, before she looks in the sparse fridge out of habit, her appetite non-existent.
Alex returns to her jacket and finds what she’s really looking for. A habit from her sophomore days has come back to comfort her. She takes a cigarette and lights it with her zippo. She hates smoking, hates it. But somehow, inhaling the toxic fumes of thousands of noxious chemicals seems apt given her current, self-destructive state.
Alex doesn’t even bother to find a chair. Instead, she slowly slips down to the tiled kitchen floor, morbidly enjoying this societally accepted brand of self-harm.
She crosses her endless legs, starting slightly when her maine coon licks her bare elbow.
‘Hello cat,’ she breathes, petting him softly. Her reason for living, right there in her lap.
A memory glides into her conscious of the time Liv came to her apartment. It only happened once. Liv desperately needed a warrant and Alex hadn’t been picking up her calls, causing the detective to worry.
Seeing Olivia Benson on her doorstep, whilst Alex was dressed in nothing but a night gown, sleepy and unthinking, left both women speechless for several heartbeats.
Taco escaped through the gap left by Alex's surprised haze, causing Olivia to run after him, down the hall, her stride that of an athlete as she cornered and returned said escapee with relative ease; breaking the awkwardness of moments before.
The look of almost childish glee and pride on her face when she passed Taco back to his mother, almost broke Alex’s resolve.
Alex had never invited Olivia back. Ever.
Suddenly, Alex wished she hadn’t deleted the detective's message so swiftly.
Shit!
She stubs out her cigarette and moves her buddle of fur so she can get up; her muscles aching from the cold, hard tiles.
‘From tomorrow, no more thoughts of dying, panic attacks or Olivia Benson!’ Alex admonishes herself. ‘Get a grip!’
She glides to her bedroom, knowing only one thing will still her mind for maybe two seconds. She searches through several shoe boxes until she finds the one she’s looking for, nestled deeply in the very recesses of her walk in closet. Alex opens the lid, her eyes scanning the contents, a flush warming her cheeks as she removes her most secret book:Tipping the Velvet.
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‘You’re losing weight, Alex,’ Arthur Branch states factually causing her to bite her tongue, silencing the ready rebuttal. Lashing out at her boss is not only foolhardy but will feed into his very unsubtle enquiry into her welfare.
Alex remains quiet, surprised by Arthur’s direct observation, and the fact he’s looking closely enough to notice.
Realising he's not going to get a response, Arthur continues in the same, awkward vein. ‘I’ve received several reports about how you conduct yourself around the office, or rather, that you don’t. And when certain colleagues do approach you, they say you are either aloof or bite their heads off.’ Alex continues to gaze at her boss, unmoving, though her insides are drowning in mortification. ‘I know I took a risk...’ A risk?! ‘... offering you this position, after... everything...’ Don’t you dare... Alex’s mind screams silently. ‘... but something isn’t right Alex,’ he finishes the humiliating speech with even more soul-destroying sympathy in his eyes.
Again, Alex doesn’t trust herself to speak; her exquisite face bearing none of her inner turmoil.
‘Have you got any support, Alex?’ The way Arthur tilts his head in empathy, his voice soft and condescending, is almost Alex’s undoing.
‘Are you firing me Arthur?’ Alex finally speaks, her voice clipped and hostile.
The DA immediately puts his hands up defensively. ‘No. You’re the best attorney this side of the Atlantic,’ he says, quickly, his awkwardness painfully apparent. ‘But, if you don’t seek help in the next two days, I’ll be putting your name forward for group therapy.’
There it is; the endgame to this whole charade of a conversation. Group therapy?! Alex couldn’t think of anything worse.
She loathes that her cheeks are starting to flush in anger, her jaw clenched to breaking point. Alexandra Cabot’s tells are on show and Arthur, to his credit, isn’t shying away from her formidably icy gaze.
‘Group therapy?’ she growls.
‘Yes,’ Arthur answers, not backing down.
‘You can’t force me,’ Alex argues, her tone suddenly desperate.
‘I wish I didn’t have to corner you like this but you’re not well. It’s obvious you’re not well, Alex,’ her boss admits bravely, knowing his subordinate is a tightly wound spring.
Alex stands from her desk, non-verbally telling Arthur that this impromptu visit is over. The older man graciously stands, knowing he has violated enough of her boundaries for one day.
‘I’m sorry Alex. But two days,’ he warns, on his way out.
As soon as Arthur’s out of sight, Alex digs her nails into her palms until they bleed; the physical pain welcome and superseding her emotional torment, for a time at least.
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Two days later
Alex strides into her office, her head down to avoid catching anyone’s eye. She notices an envelope on her desk immediately, causing her to groan inwardly. She puts her bag down and shrugs off her coat before recognising Arthurs scribble.
Shit! Alex shuts her eyes momentarily as dawning hits. She tears at the envelope, finding a registered booking card with her name embossed on it, for tonight with a women’s support group called Fe, Fi and Foe.
Oh, for fucks sake!! Perhaps they’ll give me some magic beans too!?
Alex almost rips it in two before remembering what Arthur stipulated. Attend or fired.
Fuck! She hates everything and everyone in this moment. Self-pity grips her as she swears at God, fate, Liam Conners, for the bullet that almost killed her; for each and every consequence prior and since.
But losing Liv had been the hardest knock of all. Alex couldn’t leave without letting the detective know she was alive, that her heart was still beating, for her, because of her.
Alex will always remember the look in those chocolate brown eyes when Liv realised she was alive. God, the risk had been worth it. She recognised something in those warm, loving orbs.
Was it love? Or just a friends heart-warming realisation at seeing me alive, back from the dead?
Dead...
Alex focuses her mind on the card in front of her, her body trembling slightly. Group therapy?!
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Alex arrives early, as she always does. She’s been drawing on all her googled breathing techniques to get herself in the car, let alone succeeding in finding and stopping at her destination.
Jesus! Her hands grip the steering wheel fiercely, her body and mind desperate for escape. Taco. A smile creeps to Alex’s lips despite herself.
Her cell suddenly buzzes. Arthur. It takes all of Alex's strength not to throw the offending item out the window.
‘Cabot,’ she answers curtly, unable to keep her anger from her tone.
‘Are you there?’
‘I’m not a child Arthur,’ Alex breathes, her body seething.
‘I’m doing this for your own good,’ her boss explains unnecessarily. ‘It's one past seven. Decision time counsellor...’
Alex hangs up, beyond caring that she just dismissed her own boss.
She looks at herself in the rear-view mirror, checking that her insanely casual, as far away as you can get from Alexandra Cabot hoody covers her features, her hair doing the rest.
Fuck it! She slowly opens the drivers door and puts foot to tarmac before she loses her nerve. She quickly scurries into the building, paranoid she may bump into someone she knows.
Once inside, she locates the room easily; a beacon of light showing her the way, the other rooms dark and unoccupied.
She parks herself in a free seat nearest the door, the seating in a circular formation.
Alex keeps her eyes trained on the floor, not initiating contact with anyone. Not wanting any interaction whatsoever. She crunches in her seat, praying she’s invisible.
‘Welcome to Fe, Fi, Foe. I’m Pamela, the group coordinator. I wonder if you would be willing to introduce yourself to the group.’
No. Back off! Every inch of her body is cringing in mortified embarrassment and shame.
‘Okay. You don’t have to say anything. Just thank you for having the courage to come,’ Pamela gets the message quickly. ‘Who wishes to share today?’
Alex doesn’t notice an array of hands shoot into the air, her eyes transfixed on a tiny pebble on the hall floor.
‘Olivia. Thanks for wanting to share. Please, the room is yours...’
Alex’s eyes lift slightly on hearing the name, the heart-achingly beautiful name.
‘I’m Olivia. I’m a detective, sex crimes, and I am a survivor of sexual assault by a prison guard whilst working undercover...'