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| [Beyond the Valley of the SVU IV - by theholyinnocent] |
Although the word primp could find neither characteristic nor accurate application to Melinda Warner, the beautiful Medical Examiner was nonetheless making careful preparations for the imminent arrival of her lover. After bathing she anointed herself with scented oils, dressed in a silk negligee and robe, toned and moisturized her face, put on lipstick, and, finally, cooed “Super Freak” at her foxy reflection in the bathroom mirror:
Super Freak! Super Freak! I’m Super Warner, yow.
Now that she had indulged her inner freak, Melinda took a moment to compose herself. A Bach concerto played softly in the background, the wine was chilling, and the sex toys were clean and at the ready—an army of pleasure at her lithe fingertips. As she daubed the corners of her mouth for errant lipstick, she heard the distinct opening and closing of the front door. “Honey?” she called nervously. Had it been a good idea to give her lover a set of keys? “Is that you?”
No answer.
Melinda frowned.
A shot rang out.
She dashed out of the bathroom. A fleeing figure in black bolted down the hall and disappeared through the open door. Melinda detected the acrid smell of gun smoke; this was followed by a groan emanating from her bedroom. She ran to the room and found, lying and bleeding upon her bed, the wounded figure of Olivia Benson.
“Olivia!”
“Ow. Fuck.”
“You’ve been shot!”
“You woulda made a great detective, Melinda.” Olivia was curled fetally upon the bed.
Melinda touched her. “Where were you hit?”
“Follow the trail of blood.”
“Oh my God,” Melinda intoned seriously.
Olivia panicked. “What? What?”
“It’s an ass wound.”
“Oh shit—not my ass! Next to my breasts, it’s my best feature.”
“I don’t know, I think your tongue is pretty fabulous.”
“Call 911!”
“There’s no time. I’m going to have to operate. Luckily my husband left his Swiss army knife here…I’ll use the chardonnay as antiseptic…”
“Baby,” Olivia growled through gritted teeth, “this is no time for you to do your MacGyver routine, okay? Call the fucking paramedics.”
“Don’t worry, if you’re lucky you’ll pass out. I should put on that Yanni CD you like so much, that might help. As for the stitches…”
Frantically, Olivia looked up.
Melinda was gazing at her thoughtfully. “…I’ll go get the dental floss.”
* * *
Meanwhile, in Napa Valley…
The Vargas family was overjoyed when their pit bull, Charlie Manson, was cleared of all charges in the maiming of a Republican city councilman. As members of the struggling, immigrant working-class, they worried about finding adequate legal representation until they stumbled along the fabulously pro bono Sisters of Perpetual Litigation, and, among this cadre of lawyer-nuns, the stellar Sister Esperanza.
As the family joyfully exited the courtroom, the Vargas patriarch gushed over his counsel one final time. “Sister Esperanza, you have saved our family! We don’t know how to thank you. God truly works in mysterious ways, and we are so lucky you are on God’s side.”
“Well, Mr. Vargas,” Sister Esperanza sighed with a familiar air of smugness, “I don’t work for God, God works for me.”
Tears sprang into the old man’s eyes. “You are truly magnificent!”
No sooner had the happy family left her behind on the courthouse steps than two detectives approached Sister Esperanza.
Sunlight glinted off their badges and mirrored sunglasses. “Are you Alexandra Cabot?” one of them barked.
“Who wants to know?”
“Not a good answer, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am, all right? First, I’m a frigging nun, and second, I’m not a day over thirty, I swear.”
“Are you Alexandra Cabot?” the detective repeated. “Former Assistant District Attorney assigned to Manhattan’s Special Victims Unit, graduate of Vassar, Harvard, and Oxford, and winner of the Coney Island Hot Dog Eating Contest in 1999?”
“Yes, yes. I am,” Alex sighed.
“Please come down to the station with us, ma’am. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?”
“A Manhattan detective that you used to work with was shot recently—“
“Ha!” Alex cackled. “I know someday someone would try to take out Elliot!”
“Ma’am? The detective who was shot is Detective Olivia Benson.”
Alex froze. “You mean someone shot my pookie?”
* * *
Days later, Alex found herself back in the dirty, bagel-fattened arms of New York. She tried, in vain, to see Olivia at the hospital, but couldn’t get past the uniformed cop and the hysterical, grieving Olsen Twins.
While she loitered in the hallway, surreptitiously waiting for Mary Kate to make a break for the bathroom and for Ashley to drag the uni in a hall closet for a quickie, she heard a sexily familiar voice call her name. She turned around to face her ex-lover, Elliot Stabler.
He wore his usual bitter scowl, the very facial expression that she’d been responsible for all these years. It was strange, she thought, how all the blame had been laid at her feet. Sure, she’d thrown him over for Olivia, but why couldn’t he just come to grips with the fact that his partner had bigger tits and better sex toys?
“Elliot,” she said breathily, not only because she’d had a couple of Altoids recently, but because she knew it drove him crazy.
Elliot’s gaze devoured her black-clad frame. “Love the outfit.”
“Isn’t it fabulous?” Alex did a little twirl, running her hands over her slim hips. “I also have one for mornings—it’s this beautiful shade of dove gray, and I found these divine pumps that work splendidly with both ensembles—“
“So you came to see her,” he interrupted testily.
Alex bit her lip. “I had to, Elliot.”
“You just can’t keep away from her, can you?”
“I know. Please, don’t say anything else.”
“I’ll say whatever I damn well feel like saying.” Elliot’s voice rose in his best, hysterical “Intimidate the Suspect!” fashion. “You know it’s wrong!”
“Stop it!”
“She’s your sister!”
Alex slapped him.
“And your lover!”
Slap.
“Your sister!”
Slap.
“Your lover!”
Slap.
“Your sister!”
“Can we stop this?” Alex whined. “My hand hurts.”
Elliot smirked. “You’re no fun.”
“Look, I don’t think you realize how serious this is. I’m a suspect, you know.”
“Well, what a surprise,” Elliot drawled, “so am I.”
“Oh my God!” Alex exclaimed. She laid a comforting hand on Elliot’s perfect bicep. “So you found out.”
His jaw clenched. “Yeah.”
“Olivia didn’t mean for it to happen, honestly. Kathy came on to her, you know.”
“Wait a minute.” Elliot’s face turned violently red. “Kathy? My wife?”
“Well, yes. Who did you think I was talking about?”
“Maureen,” he choked out. The artery on Elliot’s neck undulated like a drunken conga line.
“Damn,” Alex said in her best Fin impression. “She’s just working her way through the old Stabler clan, eh?” Alex shook her head in sheer admiration. “Say, Elliot, how old is Kathleen now?”
“GODDAMNIT!” Elliot drew his revolver and stomped down the hallway.
“Elliot, stop! Don’t do this!” Alex made a futile attempt at holding Elliot back, but it was too late. As he barreled down the hall, she cried aloud for guidance, seeking divine assistance from the only power that could save Olivia: “Hey, Olsen Twins! Heads up!”
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