DISCLAIMER: Law & Order: Special Victims Unit and all characters are property of NBC and Dick Wolf.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.

By Anon

Part 2

Alex pressed her hand more tightly against the warmth seeping from Olivia's chest. Detective Olivia Benson. It had been so long and yet so much was the same. Olivia was in the same fantastic shape she had always been – her hair was short cropped again and a bit spiky, her clothes flattering as always – and the familiar leather jacket… Alex had always loved that jacket. Benson would be royally pissed when she realized it was ruined… Where was that ambulance?

Olivia's eyes were closing, the shivering seemed to be subsiding somewhat and Alex squeezed the cold hand in hers, fear burning through her. "Hang on 'Liv. Don't you go anywhere…"

"Olivia." The voice. She knew the voice – but it had been… what, two years. It sounded like Alex. She wished she could move, but everything was so heavy. Heavy and cold. God it hurt. Breathing hurt. But she knew the voice. She struggled to focus. Alex.

New pain – a weight on her chest – and now she really couldn't breathe. Yes she could, come on Olivia. Shallowly. Through the pain as she realized the pressure was a hand – warm and firm against her skin. Bullet holes. Right. Clinically she realized what was going on. She was bleeding out. That's why she was so cold. She finally managed to focus on the figure leaning over her, a familiar swath of blonde hair falling forward half obscuring those features she knew so well. But… Alex was gone. Witness protection program.

"Alex?" Some foggy part of her brain made the connection and everything snapped into place. The hit. The hit had been on Alex. Or she was delirious.

"Detective." God she had missed that voice. Missed the easy rapport they had eventually developed through mutual respect. She missed Alex. "It's good to see you Olivia – but what did you do to yourself?" Was she dead? Hallucinating? It hurt too much to be dead. And the pressure on her chest seemed real enough…

"Alex." She lifted her impossibly heavy hand and managed to catch a sleeve but her own fingers were unresponsive, numb. She felt the warmth of fingers wrapping themselves around hers – found her hand raised and pressed to the warmth of the other woman's chest. God, she was getting blood all over Alex's shirt. The other woman didn't seem to notice or care.

"Yeah, it's me. It's me - hang on. Just hang on Olivia… Keep it together 'Liv, we've got some catching up to do…" It was Alexandra Cabot. In living colour, trying to keep her from bleeding out on this well manicured Connecticut lawn.

It was surreal. And Alex looked… Perfect. As always. Damn she always managed to look good. Effortlessly. Even here, with blood all over her hands, and now staining her shirt. How the hell did she do that?

Her eyelids were becoming as heavy as the rest of her now – she felt like she was sinking into the earth beneath her. Hurt to breathe, hurt to move, hurt to think. And she was so tired. She realized Alex had said something, but focused too late to catch the words. It was getting darker and colder, and impossible to focus… It was good to see Alex again – good that Alex was ok. She really did miss having the other woman around. Really did miss her… It would be good to see Alex again. God it was cold.

Alex Cabot felt utterly helpless. She knew she would remember this moment for a long time – time seemed to slow so that every detail burned itself into her senses. God, she prayed she would look back at this with Olivia, and not without. She could hear the sirens, close enough that she could actually hear the tires complain as the ambulance rounded the last few corners. She could smell the just cut lawn, and the acrid metallic tang of gun smoke. Olivia was barely conscious – chocolate brown eyes dilated almost completely black behind half open lids, the hand in Alex's had relaxed moments before and was unnaturally cold – it no longer returned her reassuring squeeze. Olivia was pale – the red smears of blood stood out in stark relief on her throat, on her hands, and glistened wetly under Alex's own hands. Her leather jacket had fallen open – her entire beige shirtfront was dark crimson, and the black of one pant leg was wet just above her knee.

Alex could feel every rattling breath under her hands, each inhalation a struggle against the weight of Alex's hand, each exhalation slower, and shallower than the last. The slight rocking had stopped, Olivia wasn't fighting anymore – even the shivering had subsided. Alex tightened her hand over Olivia's, imagined she felt the barest returning squeeze.

"Come on 'Liv." And silently she prayed.

Nelson wheeled the ambulance expertly down the quiet avenue, taking the corners as fast as the bus could handle it. He glanced at his partner who was snapping on her gloves as they neared the final block. Not too often they responded to a shooting in this neighborhood, and he hoped to hell the shooters weren't an issue anymore. Word was sketchy but it sounded like there was an officer down – and it looked like they would be the first on scene, though the police would be only minutes behind. If the police weren't there, they shouldn't leave the bus. Not until the area was secure.


He saw the woman first. A striking and damn attractive blonde woman was kneeling in the middle of a well-manicured front lawn – as he rounded the last car he saw the second figure lying motionless on the ground. One glance at his partner and he knew she shared his next thought. They didn't have time to wait – as far as he was concerned, the area was secure – protocol be damned.

He brought the ambulance to a stop and immediately left the bus and followed Buchanan to the scene. Ten years on the job and it took his breath away, just for a moment. The woman on the ground was in bad shape. He could see it in massive blood loss – there was blood covering the victim, spilled on the grass, and staining the blonde woman's shirt and hands. He could see it in the blonde woman's posture and in the way she tightly held the victim's hand to her own chest, as if willing the other to live. She was terrified, but still kept it together enough to be applying pressure to the obvious chest wound. If anything, and if she was still hanging in there, that alone may have saved the brunette's life. More bodies. He glanced but immediately knew the others were dead. There had been a hell of a gunfight, and he hoped the good guys had won.

"Please – this is Detective Olivia Benson – please help her." So the good guys were still in the game. He knew the first few images of this crime scene would stay with him for a very long time… but he didn't have time for that now. Immediately he jumped into professional mode. They needed to save this woman's life.

Pain. Movement. Voices, disjointed, distant. More pain. She was being moved, god it hurt. Stop it, stop it, stop… Hands on her body. Light, dark, motion. Flashing lights. Deep rumbling, motion. Voices again. Pressure on her face, then sweet air. Oxygen? Pressure on her chest – too much pain, too intense.


Sound. Motion. Pain. Voices. White.


Voices. Muted, distant. Movement. A gurney; she was being moved on a gurney. Antiseptic smell. Tiled ceiling, fluorescent lights, moving quickly past. Fingers gently on her cheek as she tried to focus, an unfamiliar masked face in her field of vision, brown eyes looking down at her with concern. Voices, more than one, unfamiliar. Distant but coalesced into words, some directed at her, others not. She's awake?… She's awake… Detective Benson… Do you know where you are?… Reactive but not responding. Pupils dilated. She's with us, but non-communicative. Get another unit of saline up, start another line, she's still bleeding out. Get pressure on that leg. Stay with us detective. Can you hear me? You've made it this far - just hang in there. We've got you.

Too hard to keep her eyes open. Vague images of a gunfight. Pain. The green manicured lawn and blue Connecticut sky. And Alex Cabot.

To Be Continued

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