A/N: This is a multi-chapter fic, spanning seasons 9-12. Each chapter occurs following an episode; the chapter titles bear the names of the relevant episodes. Thank you for giving it (and me) a chance. All constructive reviews are welcome.

Disclaimer: these characters are so not mine.

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It's late. Castleside is quiet in a way that the streets in Manhattan never are. Olivia doesn't know why she gave the cab driver this address and not her own, or this address instead of Kurt's, but she's here now. She's a little drunk, and she swayed on the sidewalk as her cab drove away, rethinking her decision only once its taillights disappeared at the end of the street. Her leather jacket isn't doing much to keep out the chill, and hugging herself isn't helping. It's not enough. Has not been enough all night. Will not be enough, she knows. She makes her way to the front door.

She feels like she hasn't blinked since it happened this afternoon, and no matter where she looks, all she can see is the desk and the gun and Agent Cooper.

She doesn't remember knocking or ringing the bell, but suddenly the porch light comes on and the door is opening. "I'm sorry, I realize the baby's trying to sleep..." she burbles before she can even see who's there.

"Olivia? Is everything okay?" It's Kathy. There is genuine concern in her voice as she holds her robe closed at her neck and glances out past Olivia into the street.

Olivia tries to speak, tries to nod, tries to shake her head, but she doesn't seem to have command over her body. Kathy reaches hesitatingly for her shoulder, and when she makes contact, Olivia immediately turns and pulls the other woman fully against her, not unlike the way Elliot had clutched her a month earlier, the day the baby was born. It's because of that moment, probably, that she's here—because, that day, after an emotionally exhausting and traumatic event, he had finally broken their unspoken agreement, their unspoken rules, and touched her. And now, in a similar position, she needs the same thing he had that day.

Kathy is tense in Olivia's arms, but she hardly notices. One long, silent, dry sob racks Olivia's body, and she pulls Kathy closer.

"Liv?" It's Elliot's voice, somewhere inside the house, beyond Kathy, and Olivia searches for him with wild, unseeing eyes, releasing Kathy and groping for Elliot, wherever he is. "Hey," he says softly, catching one of her hands. She latches onto him immediately, drawing him desperately against her. Elliot glances back at his wife who shrugs helplessly at him but nods her approval and, in fact, tacit encouragement of whatever he must do in this moment. Given permission, his arms wrap around Olivia without hesitation.

Olivia is holding him so close that he can completely encircle her waist with one arm. His other arm is folded around her shoulders. She can't finish a shuddering breath without beginning another sob, so Elliot, mindful of his sleeping household, steps through the still-open front door with her, nodding to Kathy as she closes it behind them. Olivia wails into Elliot's shoulder, and he cradles the back of her head.

Pressed against him, she releases everything she had bottled up since Lauren Cooper pulled the trigger. It comes out in loud, throat-chafing keens, muffled by Elliot's thick muscles and thin t-shirt.

"What happened?" he whispers, rocking her gently and pulling her impossibly closer. She hears him, distantly, and he must know that he won't get an answer, not tonight anyway, and maybe not even from her. Elliot rocks her, alternately pressing his cheek and his lips to her temple.

Eventually, her sobs subside, and her erratic breathing settles into a steadier rhythm, though it is still labored. Elliot continues to rock her, as if she were a child to be soothed, moving his hand from the back of her head down to her back, stroking her hair and neck as he goes. He rubs slow, warm circles on her back as she huffs breath after breath.

"I'm sorry," she finally murmurs into his dampened shoulder, her fatigued arms still clamping him against her, fingers still clutching his shirt desperately.

"Hey," he whispers, both chiding and comforting at once. "You know I'm here. Whatever you need."

She gulps and pulls him even closer at this, turning to press her forehead again his neck. He slides a hand back to her head, to hold her in place. She breathes him in, and it calms her. Her grips loosens a little, and one hand slides from his back to his chest.

"You're okay," he says quietly, echoing what he had said in the hospital that day, too.

Her hand slides from his chest up to his neck, and her fingers rake through the short hairs at the back of his head. "Okay," she breathes against him, so very grateful that he hasn't remarked on the stench of alcohol emanating from every inch of her body. She continues to cling to him.

Only when her grip finally falters does he attempt to pull away. "Want me to drive you home?" he asks, rearing back far enough to look her in the eye.

"No," she tells him, stepping away and composing herself. "No, I'll... I'll call... I'll call a cab," she stammers breathily.

He squints at her and shakes his head. "Nah. I'm gonna drive you," he says. "Just let me get dressed, and I'll be right out, okay?"

It's only then that she realizes that he's been standing there, this entire time, in a t-shirt and lounge pants—barefoot. He must be freezing. Olivia herself shivers at the very thought. She looks at the ugly wet stain she left on his shirt and nods dumbly.

He disappears into the house and she turns on the front porch to look out at the sleepy street. It's so silent. So peaceful. So oblivious. Olivia had seen terrible things in her years on the job, in her time at SVU. She thought about the torture room they had found. The girl who didn't make it: Amy, whose family they might never locate to notify. They were the terrible, terrible realities that the squad faced every day. They were the terrors to which Olivia had sickeningly grown accustomed.

Lauren Cooper wasn't a monster. She had done the wrong thing for the right reasons, and even though Olivia had goaded and pursued her as she would any other perp, Olivia was never fully convinced that Cooper was a criminal. Now, Olivia can't help wondering if Elliot would have given her clarity during the case. How would he have walked that moral tightrope?

What Olivia can't wrap her mind around was that Cooper had a way out. There was a deal in place. She wasn't a monster. She wasn't becoming a monster... She didn't have to...

Olivia closes her eyes and sees it again. She opens them immediately, but it's still there. Her breath catches; she might throw up. She tries very hard to focus on the neighboring houses, on anything that can anchor her to this world, to this moment. But in the stillness, the unspoken and terrifying doubt that Olivia has worked all day to bury worms its way to the surface: was she responsible?

Had she pushed too hard? Would things have turned out differently if she had only... what, gone easier? Looked the other way? She's known for a long time that justice isn't blind—so why had she behaved so righteously unflinchingly as though it were? As tough as she had been on Cooper in interrogation, it might as well have been Olivia's finger on the goddamn gun.

Elliot reemerges in boots, jeans, a sweatshirt, and jacket. She turns when she hears the door, and he stops short. She has no idea what she looks like right now, but there is clear worry in her partner's face. He's staring. After a moment, he glances at the car keys in his hand then back at her. "Screw it," he grunts, his voice a cloud a steam between them. "Get in here," he tells her then, reopening the front door, "you're staying with us tonight."

She means to protest. She means to assure him that she'll get a cab. She means to insist that she's fine now. Instead, she follows him in wordlessly and lets him help her out of her jacket. She sits on the couch when he gestures there, and she lets him remove her boots for her. She reclines and pulls her feet up when he arrives with a blanket and an afghan, which he drapes over her.

Elliot takes a seat in the armchair near her head and says nothing. She lies there for long minutes, reluctant to close her eyes again. Eventually, sheer exhaustion wins, and she falls asleep.

In the morning, Olivia is awake before any of the Stablers. She dresses silently and leaves her folded blanket on the back of the couch. The afghan she takes and lays over her partner, huddled in sleep in the chair beside her.

She lets herself out as quietly as possible and walks two blocks before calling a cab to come pick her up.

Later that morning, Olivia is relieved when Elliot enters the bullpen and takes his seat across from her without a second glance her way. He doesn't mention her late-night visit or her early departure, doesn't even ask how she's doing. She appreciates his silence on the matter. She had collapsed in a moment of weakness last night; to be reminded of it now would have only added salt to the wound.

After a bit, Elliot comes up behind her with a cup of coffee. With a hand on the back of her chair—not touching her in any way—he reaches in front of her and sets the cup firmly on her desk. He glances down at her, gives her a single solemn nod, and returns to his desk. Olivia straightens in her seat and reaches for the coffee. This morning, she is stronger.

A/N: More to come... and, fair warning, it's not all so sweet.