On a Friday night O'Malley's is crowded. It's dark, the music is too loud and the booths, the bar and the two pool tables are packed with Cops, some celebrating, some drowning their regrets, some dwelling on thoughts. The place smells of beer and Whiskey, and Olivia can't help but think that if she wasn't a SVU detective but something else, anything else really, she'd be someplace that mixes fruity, colorful drinks. But she is a cop and she does work Special Victims and a Zombie or Sex On The Beach does nothing for her, especially not after a day lost in court.

It's black and white there. Either they win and get justice for the victims or they don't. It's that simple. Win some, lose some.
But she'll never get used to the feeling of walking out of the courtroom knowing some piece of crap walks free right behind her. Walks free to strike again, go on the prowl. Destroy.

'Circumstantial at best, my ass,' she thinks, tipping the beer bottle to her lips to take a gulp. It has long since run warm, the condensation has pooled in a puddle on the table top. Her Corona tastes rancid and flat.

She had come here to get drunk, to deal, to maybe forget. But she feels so sick, her stomach all twisted in knots, that she can't even stand to drink enough to get there.

This place, despite being dark, dingy and stuffy feels like a home sometimes. A safe place. O'Malley's would have quite a story to tell about Olivia Benson if its walls could talk. Truths have been admitted here, and even the unspoken things have been too crystal clear too often. Friends were made, bonds have formed. It smells of alcohol and desperation, yet it's oddly comforting. They are all the same here, brothers and sisters in blue, different people with the same heart, the same motivation. They share their victories, mourn their losses.

It was thirteen years ago when Munch and Elliot helped Olivia walk out of here in a drunken stupor for the very first time, it was at the pool table where she started to flirt with Cassidy one night, the booth in the far corner to Olivia's right that they sat in when he ran a hand between her legs, asking her to come home with him. It was the place she came to to dowse the regret over sleeping with a coworker when she should have known better.

So yes, here is where the rest of the world is shut out, if only for a few hours, for fragments of a day, a week, a life. O'Malley's is part and parcel of their routine. Of Olivia's routine.

Olivia and Elliot have frequented O'Malley's more times than she can count, and even when no words were spoken the silence spoke volumes about their moods, their day. About them. They have always been better with the things they didn't say. Sometimes Olivia wonders how much she really knows about her ex-partner, when they never talked with words, when the things that really mattered have always been glossed over, concealed. She wonders why, despite hiding their truths, they seemed to always know.

She always knew how to read him, what kind of mood he was in, whether he was happy or depressed, when a case was too much. She knew the warning signs his body language gave away, knew about his frustration with her by the way he glanced at her. It seems big, because Olivia's never had that kind of connection with anyone else, yet, taking a look at the overall picture, it's incredibly small, incredibly little she knows about Elliot Stabler.

She knows how he takes his coffee, that a donut puts him in a better mood and chases away the clouds in his head, if only for as long as he scarfs the treat down. She knew when he's fought with his wife by the way he took a little too long to finish his paper work to stave off going home, yet she has no idea what his favorite movie is. She knows he's knocked up his wife in the back of his father's truck during their first time but has no idea whether he's still in love with Kathy or simply sticks around to have some sense of belonging, if he'd rather be miserable but at least not alone, if his vows keep him tied or if he has restored the faith in his marriage awhile ago. Olivia knows Elliot's marriage has been dysfunctional for the better course of the last decade but she doesn't know the details because he hardly ever shares. They have learned not to get too personal because it tends to make them go at each others' throats, and so it's easier to deny instead of laying it bare. They withhold and deny and while it keeps them guessing, keeps them running in circles, it works. Olivia knows a lot and at the same time she doesn't know anything. Because how much does she know, really know, when it all remains locked up inside.

She works with Fin now. Mostly. Fin's different. While he's broken, he does this job so he must be broken Olivia thinks, he's still got the ability to look at the bright side. He isn't as fickle, doesn't blow as hot and cold as Elliot. But sometimes Olivia wishes he was and did, just to be reminded.

She misses him. They still talk, still meet up. He's got better hours and he seems happier but the heaviness remains, has become part of him. Elliot isn't as angry as before but at times he's still brooding because leaving the unit hasn't freed him from SVU, hasn't chased away the demons. The people he has seen. The things he has done. It's within him. He's still fierce, still a force, a hurricane, but he no longer hits, has stopped destroying. He's calmer these days, all things considered.

She wonders where he sleeps these days when shit hits the fan at home, wonders because asking him would be a question too loaded and they don't do loaded. She wants to know which bunk in the crib is his, if the springs squeak as loudly as those at the 1-6, if the mattress is saggy like the one he used to sleep on countless times in between cases or after fights with his wife. She imagines the covers must smell like him, of soap and that special something that is just Elliot.

And suddenly a thought hits her, rams into her, breaks skin and ribs, goes straight for her heart.

I wish Elliot was here.

He would sit with her in silence for the majority of the night, tipping back a couple of beers, maybe something stronger. To take the edge off. Eventually they would talk about the case, about the ruling. He'd be angry and brooding and his hard muscles would tense with his rage. His eyes would be hard and unforgiving, steel blue and cold and he'd do anything not to look at Olivia because in such situations he never wanted her to think that his anger is directed at her.

He'd understand. Know exactly what she feels, would know about her need for silent comfort and her want for redemption. Olivia knows it's the system that has failed, not them, not her. But somehow the point where she blames herself comes anyway, mocks and haunts her, slaps her right across the face.

Not good enough.

Sometimes it seems no matter how hard she works, it bites her in the ass one way or another.

It's one of the moments she understands why he left, transferred out. And God, Olivia wishes she could do the same but even after thirteen years there's something that holds her back.

For a moment Olivia is so lost in thought, trying to figure out what keeps her in the unit, she doesn't notice the man standing next to her, almost hovering. But then there's the rumble of his deep voice and she startles, almost jumps in her booth.

"Benson-," he starts, but remains silent as her eyes rake over his body, all the way from his hip up to his head, her gaze finding his eyes. He stands 6-foot-5 tall, is cleanly shaven just as he had been in the morning, looking down at the detective with his handsome face.

What the hell is he doing here? In a cop bar? Talking to her? The guy's got some nerve.

"Langan," she snarls, and it sounds like she refers to something utterly disgusting. The name does leave a searing taste in her mouth. She swallows it, saliva clicking in her throat although she'd rather spit it out. Better yet, spit right in his face.

He walks around the table, slides into the booth opposite hers, looking at her.

"Don't even think about it," she warns. She's not gonna let him sit here. Who does he think he is even trying? As if she'd sit with the enemy. For all intends and purposes that is what Trevor Langan is. She tries to prune the streets of the city's scum, he comes to their defense. Olivia wants them rotting behind bars, Langan helps set them free. Olivia cares about justice, Trevor about money, at least she thinks that's his motivation. Unless he's completely heartless, unaffected by what Olivia sees and deals with every day, what he has to deal with as well. But he just stumbles across those crimes, his role in the game is much more passive. It's a peculiar dance between them whenever they meet at the station. He throws his lawyer talk around, she attacks. Bites. Most of the time she's indifferent to Trevor. Today, however, what she feels runs much deeper, roots within her.

"We gotta talk," he states. His eyes are a mixture of greens and blues, and his usually hard stare is softer in the darkness of the bar.

They have nothing to talk about. Olivia doesn't have anything to say to him. When they do talk it always concerns work, and if it wasn't for that she wouldn't even know the guy. The only time they have ever met outside of work was when Olivia was accused of murder and Langan came to her defense. She hadn't been particularly impressed to see him but she had been relieved. Olivia had never thought she'd feel happy to see Trevor Langan but she knew that he was good at what he did, was painfully aware of him being her best shot. It didn't make her like him and in the back of her mind there had been doubts even then, chained to a metal rod in a hallway of Central Booking. After having been arrested by Tucker of all people and having her photograph taken. Doubts that Langan was the right person to defend her, speak for her. Doubts nagging. Pushing. Trevor simply hit a little close to home. But it was not like she had a choice, nor was she willing to fire him, find someone else to represent her. Especially not when she found out his retainer had already been paid. Their history had nothing to do with it. It had been business.

Langan had assumed she was guilty and probably it shouldn't have surprised Olivia. The man defended criminals all the time. Presuming the worst had probably become such a big part of him that their innocence was easier to prove than convince himself of. Maybe it's the last thing Olivia should blame him for. She imagines most people didn't believe in her side of the story. She could tell by the way they looked at her as she entered the precinct, whispering, acting like she was one of those animals she had tried to stop for years. Olivia had seen it in Tucker's eyes as he questioned her, coming up with some crap story of PTSD, about how she'd lost it.

Olivia had felt as if trapped in a horror movie, like someone must have been playing a sick joke on her. Only nobody had been laughing. For a moment, despite knowing her hands were clean, despite knowing for fact she didn't murder anybody, Olivia had started to question her own sanity. It had been impossible. And Tucker hadn't believed a word of what Olivia said, hadn't doubted her guilt. She had been the prime suspect in a murder investigation and despite the absolute impossibility they have had more than enough evidence for a conviction. Murder in the second degree. Charges Olivia could barely face, much less understand.

Even then she had felt safe, thinking that IAB had nothing on her because she had not been anywhere near the victim, hadn't done a thing to him. The thought of going back to prison had terrified Olivia enough to talk to Tucker without a lawyer present, despite Cragen's and Munch's warning. But she had been ready to do anything that would keep her in the safety of the station and far away from a place that would bring the demons back.

Olivia had been confused as Tucker then took her to Central Booking, disclosing they had matched her DNA to the one found on the knife Clyde was murdered with. And that's when Langan showed up, much to her surprise. If Olivia is being honest, it had only been then she had realized how hopeless the situation was, how her friends knew she needed a shark of a lawyer to stand a chance in court.

The evidence had been so stifling, there were moments she hadn't even known what to believe anymore, ran out of ways to explain. Her DNA had been found on the murder weapon. How it got there Olivia had no idea. Her Mustang had been driven, damaged in a hit and run, and everything pointed to her, no matter how often she declared her innocence.

For reasons Olivia can't explain she thinks Langan should have known she couldn't have done it. Even knowing nothing about her personal life, the times they met at the 1-6, in court, he should have known that she wasn't capable of murder. That she cared too much about her job to do something that could take it away from her. She was a decorated Detective with the NYPD, for heaven's sake! She was dedicated. She was her job.

It had made her wonder if Langan ever paid any attention to her at all.

He had thought she was guilty, she had seen it in his eyes, in the way he took just a little too long to cut her question whether he believed she had done it short saying: "Of course not." She had told him how this was different, that she was telling the truth, how it wasn't his usual smoke and mirrors. He had cut her off with the excuse that they didn't have much time, and while she never really got over the encounters at work, she was unable to forgive Langan for his disinterest in the truth. Maybe he hadn't wanted to know. Maybe he doesn't give a damn if a client is guilty or not. But all Olivia had wanted was someone to see her for what she was, someone who could actually do something about it. Olivia doesn't fool herself, she knows that if tables hadn't turned all of a sudden, if it hadn't been for Elliot's dedication in proving his partner's innocence, Trevor wouldn't have gotten her off. She'd be in prison right this minute, sentenced for a crime she hasn't committed.

Olivia had needed him to believe her, as if that would have meant it gave him the incentive to work harder, prove she had nothing to do with Clyde's murder, no matter the outcome.

If it hadn't be for Elliot, Olivia doubts anyone would have cared about the truth at all. It was him who fought for her as if his own freedom depended on it, it was him who bailed her out of prison, mortgaging his house without even telling his wife, simply dismissing the possibility that Olivia could screw up and get him in trouble. The way he had seen it there had been nothing for him to worry about. And although she had told Elliot that there are worse fates, worse places to be, she had been relieved and grateful. She wouldn't have made it in there for much longer with nothing but tormenting thoughts in a darkness that the lamps couldn't illuminate enough, with the knowledge that before long she'd be shipped off to Rikers Island until trial would start. The desperation had seeped from the walls into her body, made Olivia feel cold and alone. She had never been that scared for her future, for herself.

The place had made her feel almost claustrophobic, the possibility of not getting out, not ever, made it hard to breathe. For Olivia to be imprisoned, as a detective, after all she had done in her career, was the ultimate degradation. Locked in a cell like a criminal, accused and unable to prove her innocence. Olivia had felt lost, had felt all control she used to have over her life slip through her very fingers. She had been facing a life sentence for murder and there hadn't been a damned thing she could do about it. She was going to be locked up with the sort of people she despised, had always separated herself from. Olivia was nothing like them, would never be anything like them.

Up until this day Olivia has had a feeling that Langan had felt sorry for the mess she had gotten into. He had been fairly nice, when bail was set at 250.000 Dollars at her arraignment – Olivia's worst nightmare – he had looked truly worried and there had been no question: Olivia Benson had been in deep shit. He whispered in her ear that he'd get her out, and while she believes Elliot was more than willing to mortgage his house, she's got the suspicion that Langan had asked her colleagues, maybe specifically Elliot if there was something he could do. Olivia hadn't had two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars. In fact she didn't even know anyone with that kind of money. And still, despite everything, despite the feeling that Trevor Langan had actually felt sorry for her about two years ago, she doesn't have any sympathy for him, isn't willing to make excuses for a man so utterly different from herself.

"Gotta talk? We gotta do shit."While she doesn't know anything about Trevor Langan, she hates his guts, hates him for what he does. When they meet he makes her life and job a little harder. She doesn't owe him anything. Maybe it would be different if he had seen her for what she is, if he would have believed her. In turn that would mean he'd have to assume his every client is free of guilt, was set up, toyed with. And that's where the vicious cycle begins, where lies bleed into truths and taint them. Trevor Langan couldn't and can't ever do the right thing in her eyes, even if he tried. They stand on different sides, would never meet in the middle, never come to a mutual understanding. His victory is her downfall, hers, despite the defeat, his win; a little more money in his pocket.

Langan is silent. He doesn't argue, seems to accept this. In more ways than one he understands.

Then, "What are you doing here, anyway?" She doesn't need others to see her mingle with Satan in person. But she is curious. Very.

"Came to see you," is his short reply. Trevor shifts and it is now that Olivia realizes how uncomfortable he looks. He glances around the place and there are a couple of eyes on them. Olivia sighs.

Oh boy.

"Fine, so you've seen me." Wait. "How did you know I was here?"

Langan's eyes are on her again, his fingers bounce slightly on the table top.

"Your Captain said I'm likely to find you here."

He talked to Cragen? What would he do that for? She is confused and damn her if he doesn't pick up on it. "You talked to Cragen?"

"I've been looking for you but you've already left. Listen-." He takes a deep breath and his words anger her so much, Olivia fears she's going to lose her shit. His presence is never welcome, but tonight it borders on unbearable.

She wonders how he even got the idea to set foot into a cop bar when criminal defence lawyers are the last thing wanted in here. There should be a sign keeping guys like Langan from entering, intruding, tainting this place.

"No, you listen, Langan. I don't know what the fuck you're doing here and I honestly don't care." Probably he wants to rub his triumph in her face. "I don't condone what you do. I don't understand it, either. And I don't ever want to. Just get the hell away from me, will ya?" She's being a bitch but she isn't all that sure if she cares right this second. Olivia is pissed, pissed that they lost in court, pissed that Rostock walked and it is so, so easy to take it out on Langan because he's more or less responsible for her current state of misery. Olivia reaches for her beer, gulps the last of it down and slams the bottle back on the table, about ready to leave.

"The ruling today was a mistake," he says. She stops mid-motion, staring at him wide eyed and the question lingers there on her stony face.

"What?"

"Listen, I don't have much time to explain. Just come with me."

"The hell?" She exclaims, maybe a little too loud because she makes some heads turn. Well, at least now nobody will think they're being overly friendly with each other. Just as well.

"Will you be the fuck quiet?" He hisses through his teeth in a stage whisper.

"What kind of game are you playing, Langan?" Olivia hisses back, not quite as loud as before but still loud enough to attract attention from the people around them.

Langan stares her down and his eyes are cold, challenging. Watching. Like a snake stalking its prey, ready to strike. Then he gets up, just a little, knees bent. His palms are flat against the table top as half of his torso is hovering above it and even then he's about the same height as her.

"He's guilty." He's speaking so quietly, through his teeth and his lips are barely moving. Olivia is wondering if he said anything at all. But she's heard him, heard something that was only meant for her ears and she can't. Fucking. Believe. Him!

"Oh, really?" She asks sarcastically. Her hands are shaking with anger. "Of course he's fucking guilty, Langan, what the hell did you think?"

"I thought what I'm supposed and paid to think," he rasps, getting just a little closer with his face.

"Raping and murdering little girls shouldn't be a crime?" She challenges, her stare boring into him. Her voice has dropped considerably.

"Innocent until proven guilty," he responds and she laughs in his face with a small roll of her eyes.

"You're scum, Langan. Quite honestly, you're not better than they are." He knew Rostock was guilty as sin, admits it as well, and now the asshole comes to rub it in her face. "I don't know how you can live with yourself."

"Do you want what I've got or don't you?" He asks her eventually, ignoring the insult.

"What you've got?" She repeats. What could he probably have?

He swallows, moves a little closer to her and now there's barely any space left separating their faces. Olivia doesn't shy away. She's not scared or intimidated and by the expression on his face she has no reason to be. Trevor can smell the alcohol on her lips, almost feels her breath tickling his face as she's breathing heavily through her nose.

"That guy-," he breathes. "- needs to be taken off the streets."

Olivia raises a single eyebrow. Is he kidding her? That had been what she's worked her ass off for, that's what she and Casey had tried to make sure of in court. And that piece of crap got away with Betsy Turner's rape and murder courtesy Trevor Langan.

"You made goddamn sure he walked, Langan." The words are a bite.

"The evidence was shaky, Olivia," he whispers, his eyes darting to the table next to theirs but most of the other patrons of the bar are engrossed in their own conversations. Or their drinks for that matter.

"The evidence was there and it was enough! It should have been enough! He raped, maimed and killed that little girl, a six year old girl, goddammit. And you helped him get away with it."

"I did my job," he says calmly. "If I hadn't been his defence attorney it would've been someone else. The result would be the same. The system has flaws and I worked with what I had."

"How do you sleep at night, Langan?"

"Sometimes I don't." Olivia wants to laugh, but there is something about his eyes, about his face that make it seem inappropriate. He's a lawyer. He defends the scum of New York City, monsters, so she doesn't trust his words. And yet there is something. That flicker. That... sadness?

He doesn't do his job to set people like Rostock free, and not all of his clients have committed horrible crimes. A fair share of his clientele wasn't guilty, of that Langan is convinced. Olivia Benson is living proof, after all, and he hadn't been overly convinced of her innocence.

He's done his part to make the world a better place, to achieve justice when justice was due. He isn't blind to the fact that he helped criminals as well, though. It is part of his profession, it happens. Sometimes they walk, and it doesn't make Trevor feel easy. He went to law school and ended up in one of New York City's best chanceries, made it partner four years ago. While he doesn't pride himself on every case he fought and won, he has no shame on where he stands now. He's worked hard to get where he is today and he isn't going to answer to anyone who questions his life decisions just because they work on the other side of the system. Trevor is the first to admit that he works for scum sometimes, that he represents perpetrators, but it's not his job to question them, it's his job to do what he can to prove their innocence even if their hands are dirty, have touched, raped, killed. Trevor doesn't have sympathy for them and while he hates to lose in court there's the occasional case that makes him take a breath of relief when he does, when his defense lacks credibility. There are people that belong behind bars, who deserve to be locked up for life and when he stumbles across that kind of client it makes him sleep a little better when he fails to keep them out of jail. He likes the rush that comes with being a defense lawyer, hates what it does to him. He gives away pieces of his soul, too. He isn't cold, cruel and blind. He isn't his job. And although there is no reason for him to justify what he does or why he does it there's always the bitter pill of guilt to swallow. But this one, the one that was forced down his
throat today, is poisonous.

"What do you want from me?" It comes out with a quiet sigh. She is tired and wants to be left alone, and obviously he's not going to go anywhere just because she engages in wishful thinking. "One minute," she tells him.

He gives a short nod, sitting back down because Olivia doesn't seem inclined to follow him outside where they could talk privately.

"I think there have been other victims," he starts, quietly.

Olivia closes her eyes, shaking her head. "You think? What are you talking about Langan?" The man irritates her to no end.

"This stays between us," he whispers, although he is not a one-hundred percent sure he can trust her enough. With what he's going to tell her she could have his ass, end his career as a lawyer.

"Your minute's almost up," she reminds him, trying to cut this short.

"After court today, Rostock said something," Trevor tells her, his eyes focused strictly on the detective's. "He thanked me-"

Olivia interrupts, snorting with disapproval. "Yeah, I woulda thanked you, too, if I got off with that."

Langan didn't let the comment deter him and kept talking. "He said he knew the Jury would understand that they wanted it. All of them."

All of a sudden Langan's got Olivia's full attention.

"He said that?" She asks in disbelief.

"With a smile," Trevor agrees. "So, there's gotta be others, Olivia."

She furrows her brow, because she doesn't understand this. Langan gives her privileged information on one of his clients. And not only that. There's an urgency in his voice, she hadn't thought a man like Trevor Langan could convey. The guy actually looks disturbed.

"Why are you telling me this, Langan?" The one million dollar question.

"Because you're the only person I know who's going to go lengths to get justice for those girls."

"Since when do you care about justice?" Olivia doesn't expect him to answer the question, nor does his answer interest her. Sure, he came to her defense once because everyone at the 1-6 chipped in when she was accused of murder. She herself could have never afforded hiring him. Innocent people get locked up more often than one would think, they're suspected of crimes for lack of an alibi and sometimes they've simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time. The systems isn't perfect, it has got more holes than Swiss cheese. Still that's not what she wants to hear him say to justify what he does.

"I'm trying to serve justice, Olivia. Just like you do and just like any other lawyer does."

"What makes you think I'm not gonna rat you out and get you disbarred?" The thought makes her feel a little giddy inside. Getting rid of at least one of them, now that's a thought.

"You may hate me, Benson. But you hate people like Rostock a lot more."

"I don't know why you tell me this, because even if there have been others, we've got nothing on him, Langan. We didn't get him for what he did to Betsy and for all we know there have been no others. There's no goddamn evidence, so what do you think I can do?"

"Find evidence," he says as if it's nothing, as if it's not a big deal, either. He might as well ask her to make it rain.

"On what grounds?" Exasperatedly she pushes a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Let's presume Betsy wasn't his first victim – how do I know that? How do I explain that, Langan. Huh? Because sometimes I do have hunches but that one's a little out there, don't you think?"

"See if you can find the same M.O."

"Don't insult me, Langan. What do you think we did in order to catch this guy?"

"Look elsewhere. Look in fucking Idaho if you have to," he tells her. "But you gotta do something because I don't think he's gonna stop, Olivia."

"I can't believe this," she sighs. He must be kidding her. It's his fault that Rostock is back out there. He may have a point saying if it wouldn't have been him he'd have gone free anyway, but it was him. And it will be him again and again.

"I can't start some kind of investigation, Langan. I've got nothing on him but goddamn privileged bits of a conversation which means I can't even share it. I have no reason to look into Rostock again or still!"

"So, you're not gonna do anything?"

"It's out of my hands."

"No, it's not. You could look into it, you could try to get your hands on something."

"And risk my job? I've got no more favors to call in. I wouldn't even know where to start. You said it yourself. The evidence was shaky. Even with a dead kid on our hands he couldn't be stopped."

"I'm risking mine. I'm willing to lose mine if that's what it takes. Listen, I'm not asking you to start some huge secret operation. All I want is for you to see if you can match the M.O. As I said – and if you've got to look in Idaho." He emphasizes the last word, giving her a stern look as he withdraws, slides out of the booth. He's got her full attention, Trevor can see it in her face, in the way her brow furrows and she licks her lips once.

"What's in Idaho?" She asks intrigued by the things he doesn't say. Olivia's heart skips a beat, her curiosity kicking in just like Trevor had hoped. She's in cop mode now, wanting information, willing to solve a puzzle. Put the pieces together.

"Potatoes," he says, pointedly, standing at the side of the table. "Goodnight, Olivia."

"Wait, you can't just leave now. Why Idaho, Langan? What are you saying?"

"Too much," he growls, combing a hand through his thick hair, starting to move, pull away.

Olivia quickly gets up as Langan stalks past her. "Langan!" She demands, wanting him to stop walking and start talking. She fumbles for her handbag, for her purse and it takes her too damned long. She keeps looking after him, watching him disappear with his long strides, while she slams a few dollars on the table. "Goddamn son-of-a-bitch," she hisses quietly, rushing after him. He's out the door already and as she reaches the street the cold night air envelops her with a vengeance. She sees him in the dark, his tall frame illuminated by the street lights. "Langan, wait!" She yells, breaking into a run to catch up with him.

Olivia feels like a fool. Five minutes ago she desperately wanted to get rid of him, now she was running after him like a faithful dog, wanting more information. When Olivia reaches him, panting slightly, she grabs his wrist, making him turn around and face her. "What do you know, Langan?" She asks. Her tone is no longer demanding, this time she sounds like she is pleading with him, like she admits defeat, lets him win.

"I don't know anything." Trevor's posture is rigid, his voice calm.

"Then what is it about Idaho, Langan? You can't do this. You can't come to me, asking me to look into Betsy's case again and not give me a reason."

"I gave you reason," he reminds her.

"Just tell me."

"I can't. Because I do not know anything. I'm taking a guess, Benson. A big one and I'm not sure it's gonna get you anywhere but-"

"What else did he say? He said something about Idaho, right?" She's not eating the crap he's feeding her, that he doesn't know anything and is only guessing. He must know something and he better tell her.

"He didn't. If you can do something, it would be great if you did. If not, thank you for you time, I appreciate it." In all the years she has known Langan, Olivia has never seen him like this, especially not asking her to do something. Kindly on top of that. For the first time she gets the impression that he might actually care about what she does, despite making her believe in the contrary because of his job.

"Idaho?" She asks, giving up the fight for more information, realizing she's unlikely going to get more from him.

"Idaho," he agrees, his voice a deep rumble. He stuffs his hands in the pocket of his expensive, anthracite-colored suit, watching the detective nod. Trevor has a feeling it's her way of telling him she'll see what she can do, then again he's not at all sure. He likes the woman. Kind of. She's fierce, dedicated. And although they have never gotten along; of course that was to be expected with them working for different sides of the law, he has never felt the utter dislike she seems to hold for him.

"Trevor-," Olivia starts. Her voice has softened, the bite is gone, the accusation put on hold for a minute. It occurs to Olivia that she has never used his first name. It's always been Langan, partially to show her disrespect, partially to impersonalize every word exchanged. He picks up on the use of his first name immediately, surprise washing in his eyes. He visibly relaxes a little, his stiffness fading. "Why are you doing this?"

For a minute Trevor isn't sure how to answer. He cares. He likes children, he feels sick just imagining what happened to Betsy Turner and likely to other girls before her. Ralph Rostock was something else, an animal. Trevor has defended a whole lot of guilty people, has gotten some of them off, too, but nobody has ever looked him in the eye and admitted to have done it. Nobody has ever smiled that disgusting smile, thanking him for his services and deliberately let slip that there have been other victims. Nobody has ever managed to make Trevor's blood run cold, freeze. He has stomached a lot of things, but this was something he knew he couldn't live with. They aren't likely to pin another murder on Rostock, but he wants to believe that by telling Olivia something he shouldn't he does his part.

Maybe he wants absolution after all the times he tried to keep people like Rostock out of jail, whether he succeeded or not. On some level this one's to prove something to himself, prove he's human despite the inhumanity his job requires him to portray.

He thinks long and hard, and still he doesn't have an answer to give. "Just doesn't seem right not to."

Olivia looks up at him, his face is overshadowed by the darkness. She can't see the expression on his face, only hears his voice as he seems to fumble for an answer that doesn't seem satisfying even to him. His eyes are on her and it's surprisingly quiet outside for New York City at night. A few cars are passing by but that's about the only distraction of silence.

"Will you let me know if you have something?" Trevor's words push through the icy November air.

Olivia nods. Somehow words refuse to roll off her tongue as she's trying to understand his motivation.

"Thank you," his deep voice rumbles. "Good night, Olivia." He pivots, and she sees his face slightly illuminated by a light post for a second. Then, with strides that seem longer than she's ever seen, Trevor walks away, both hands deep in the pockets of his suit coat.

"Good night," she mutters, almost in a whisper, as he's already too far down the street to hear her. She looks after him until he eventually disappears in the night, until she is sure she doesn't even see his tall frame dance in the distance, pop up and vanish in rhythm of the street lights appearing.