Autor's Note: Hello! So I wasn't sure if this would ever be a real story, but I decided to go for it anyway, because it has been on my mind for months now. I couldn't really pick a genre category as I am not entirely sure where it's going yet. So a few words: it's not romance, it's not drama although it can get a bit angsty, it's not super violent although it may have a few mentions of upsetting content. Mainly, it's about two people getting their lives together, about changes, about getting older. Lots of Olivia, some Noah, some Brian, some squad moments and puppies. Wow, I'm really not selling this, am I? Anyway, see for yourself. As always, reviews make me so happy and reward the work that goes into this sort of thing.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, and I am only writing this story for fun and taking liberties with the characters, not deriving profit from it.

Bookends

The blood fills your mouth quickly. It seeps through your teeth and runs down towards the back of your palate. Your throat closes up, trying to keep you from swallowing it, the metal taste producing the strong urge to retch, to get it all out. If you do that, you'll lose more. You can't breathe, an iron cage around your lungs because it hurts, it hurts so much and oh God, this is it and you'll bleed out in this street, you'll die right here and now. It's all back, the hands pressing against your chest, the shouting and the blurry face above you that is her, but it isn't, it's a man and… "Cassidy! It's all right, breathe, it's just your ribs, let me get the vest off- hey, hey, calm down, man, Cassidy, sh- look at me…shit, did you bite your tongue?"

~Winter's Tale~

It's hard to fathom how one dog can be so disciplined at work, then get up to the worst ideas at home. Obviously, Benji is trained to be perfectly obedient, and you are an unbeatable duo. If you tell him to stop, he will desist without delay. It's the stuff you don't tell him that's the problem, like when you run down to the store by yourself and come back to find him napping on that pile of clean laundry you neglected to put away. Or when you walk through the door like now and can just see from the way he cocks his head and looks at you with those big brown eyes of his that he knows he screwed up royally.

You put your hands on your hips, doing your best to look stern and intimidating. "All right, what happened?"

But of course, if there is a God, he did not grant Benji the gift of speech. All you get is a little whimper that tugs at your heartstrings as he turns around and trots away, hanging his head. It doesn't take much of a detective, however, to guess what the smell of cold tomato sauce means. So you brace yourself as you round the counter, where you find your 1980s kitchen tiles splattered in red, an overturned pot next to what looks like a gigantic puddle that got licked and spread all over the floor. It's the licking that may have saved you a lot of surface cleaning, but as you look up, you notice the stains on your old wooden cupboard doors, even some drops all the way up on the ceiling. Well, there's your afternoon all planned out.

"Seriously, buddy, again?"

Of course, it's your own fault for leaving the left-overs out on the stove, and yes, you are, strictly speaking, not supposed to leave your canine partner at home by himself in a tiny apartment for extended periods of time. You're pretty sure if he had hands, he would actually help you clean up. That doesn't make this any less irritating. It makes you long for a time when you didn't have live-in animal partners, but humans who wouldn't chew on your things or wake you up at 5am because they spontaneously needed exercise.

You walk over to the little closet and grab your mop and a bucket. "Thanks a lot, partner."

And as you survey this apartment you've made your home, an hour's commute away from work, as you can't shake the tension in your shoulders, you know what you need to do. Because all the cleaning in the world won't let you forget the news. Suddenly, you know.

"Who knew playgrounds were so popular in winter?"she comments, one hand on the baby carriage as she surveys the crowds of children on the swings and slides.

You get what she's saying, you really do. This is a new world to her, one that probably still feels a bit strange. The picture of domesticity is intimidating, as overprepared mothers -and why is it only mothers?- feed their well-dressed kids slices of organic apples or offer them drinks of filtered water from brightly coloured, PET-free, spillage-proof bottles. There is inevitable competition here, not only in a material sense, but in terms of who is the "better parent". Which toddler can climb the jungle gym by him- or herself? Which five-year-old cries and runs to mommy for help when (s)he scrapes a knee? Which child says "hello" in a polite manner and shares its toys? You remember your sense of apprehension the first time you came here. Hell, you still feel it sometimes, when Noah's hair looks like you haven't even bothered to comb it, he hits another kid with a plastic shovel or a thirty-year-old upper class housewife asks about your husband's occupation.

So you smile reassuringly, watching your son run off towards the slides. "You'll be glad they are. Any idea what happens if I keep this one cooped up inside all day?"

"I can only imagine" she replies, rocking the baby carriage.

"It's Armageddon."

"Yeah." There is a brief pause in which she seems to steel herself and gather up the courage to do the inevitable. "So…how are you doing?"

You knew she would ask. Of course she would, although you appreciate the fact that this is Amanda and when she asks you a personal question, it almost feels like she doesn't want to know the answer. "I'm okay" you say curtly, giving her the polite response. You're alive. Again. You have no reason not to be okay.

She gives you the faintest of nods, and although you can all but see the wheels inside her head turning, she doesn't fight you on it. "It sounded awful from what Fin told me."

"It was." What business does Fin have to be giving her all the details, texting crime scene pics, asking her opinion on forensics? You really need to talk to him about this again. When you can.

"But you made it out."

"Yeah." You handled it right. You did the best you could. You survived. You know all that. But it doesn't change what happened to that girl. "It was a close call." Your hands behind your back, being exposed, unable to protect yourself. The way it cuts into your skin.

"That's gotta be hard to deal with." The sounds she makes, all the way through. Her gaze is piercing you now, and the pity in it is like a sticky substance you can't wash off your skin. She isn't meant to pity you. You are her boss. You don't know why it's so hard to care, such a challenge to really feel it. You just don't. You know how you should feel about this encounter, but it's all like a bad dream, a recurrence of something that never fully went away either way. You are too used to it.

His breath on your cheek, the barrel of the gun so close it's all you can see although you try not to look, because there is just no way you are getting out of here alive again. Not this time. There isn't even any thought of "why, why me", any concept of it that could cross your mind. It's pure survival, instinct as you try not to think of your little boy's face at home or you'll cry and crying might make him angry and angry men pull the trigger. It happens all the time, angry men pulling triggers on women, and you let yourself get into this, you weak idiot, but here's the gun beside you and you've got to figure out what to do, you can't freeze because he's angry, so angry, and now it's all blurring and the door is a bed is a table and metal and breaths and…

Shrill laughter penetrates your senses from somewhere as a child's ball rolls in front of you, saving you. "You can't afford to fall apart when you have a kid." The words come out robotic. They are your hourly mantra since it happened. Things are different this time. You are different.

You force yourself to notice your surroundings, grounding yourself, unclenching your stiff fingers. A flock of birds is flying by overhead, black against the grey sky. The bench feels cold against your thighs. Instinctively, your eyes find your son amidst the colourful crowd of jackets as he watches the slide that has been occupied by older children, bigger children. He looks so small, so lost in this world, and you can't read his face as he pulls off his beanie, throwing it onto the ground.

"Noah" you call out, "keep your hat on, please."

He is not far from you –you have a hard time letting him stray these days- and he clearly hears you as he turns around and stares, making no move, his lips pursed.

"Sweetie, put your hat back on. Now."

By now, you're sure he's calling you into a standoff, one you're not sure you are ready for as your legs still feel shaky. It's pathetic, you being unable to deal with a two-year-old, your son.

Amanda makes a move to get up. "I'll-"

"No, I'll do it, thanks." You walk over to Noah, who, mercifully, doesn't run away for you to chase after him. You want things to go well in front of Amanda, to show her that you are in control of the situation. He is forcing you back into life.

"Here, let's put this back on." You pick up the beanie from where he tossed it into the sand and shake it out.

"No." He gives you his best unimpressed look, daring you to contradict him. He rarely shouts; calm defiance is more his thing. You so don't have the energy for this today. It's going through the motions, trying to care.

You run one hand through his sweaty hair, which is sticking to his head. He'll get sick again if you're not careful, and your first impulse is to physically overpower him. But no. You're an authoritative parent. You explain your decisions. "Yes, it's really cold today. I want you to stay warm."

"No." He points at it. "It's dirty."

"Here, we'll brush it off." You don't know where this recent pickiness about clothes has come from, but he is a big stickler for cleanliness.

"Again."

"Here, you do it."

"No, Mommy do it."

"Fine, look, it's clean now, there. Now you can put it back on yourself, or I can do it."

To your amazement, he takes the beanie without another complaint and actually does a good job of covering his ears with it, before edging towards the smaller slide with the ramp, where he has a better chance of getting a turn.

Amanda is watching him as you return. "A victory."

"Wait till Jesse discovers free will. So fun."

"Wait till your kid demands five bucks in exchange for obedience."

You glimpse into the baby carriage, and to your surprise, Amanda's quiet daughter is not asleep. She is looking up at a sky she can't see yet in wondrous admiration, her little hand sticking out from under the cover. "Hey, baby girl. Hey." You tug the blanket more snugly around the gap, briefly covering her cold fingers with your own hand. She is a little miracle, bright blue eyes, a button nose and pink lips, shaped into a yawn. Something inside you aches with longing as you look at her. You never got to have this time with Noah. This is one experience you won't share, time with him you'll never get back. You will never have this. How you'd love to have a girl… "She's perfect, Amanda."

"I know, but after this pregnancy, don't expect me to have another one anytime soon." Her words sting.

"How are you doing now? After…everything?"

"Physically? I'm doing better. I mean, it still hurts like a bitch when I lift anything, you know." You can see her stopping herself, a flush creeping into her pale cheeks, because of course, you don't know.

"That sounds tough, when you can't really rest because you have a baby to care for."

"Yeah, but Lydia's been great, coming over to help out and showing me how to make it easier for myself." Lydia, so you know, is the midwife who was supposed to help at Amanda's birth before things went south. "She insisted, just because of the complications…"

"There's no shame in accepting help, Amanda. You're doing this on your own, you're going to need support. For yourself and her."

She lowers her gaze at her gloved hands, her thumb rubbing at a stain in the leather. "Look, Liv, I'll manage, and I'm coming back soon for sure-"

"There's no rush, there's always a space for you on our team, you know that. You need to focus on you and Jesse right now." It's the answer you want to give her, and only half a lie. Everyone in your department, except for Carisi and Fin, are all over you to hire someone new. "New blood" is supposed to fix this set of tragedies and scandals that has befallen your squad, to make up for everything, to be the final test for your leadership style until it's decided you're not fit for this job after all. But that's not on her. You won't let this affect her.

"I won't let the job slack, I promise."

"I know you won't. You're a great detective."

"Thanks." She gives you an embarrassed sideways glance and a genuine smile.

"How are you managing otherwise? Has your mom been in touch at all?"

"Once. She called to guilt trip me, obviously, no surprises there. But she, uh, sent a card."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "It is what it is."

A moment of understanding passes between you. Here you are, both of you alone in your own ways. You remember the sleepless nights when you first brought Noah home, the way you would sit up rocking him, begging him to sleep when all he would do was cry, cry, cry, unfamiliar with his surroundings, too used to abandonment and abuse. You had to keep the lights on in the apartment because shadows and memories were lurking everywhere, but you also couldn't, because this helpless baby you were suddenly responsible for hated them for some reason. Sacrifice. You would sit, trying to calm yourself down, trying to calm him down, sure that you would never understand what he was trying to tell you with his agonised cries, convinced that you were hurting him and you would never be his real mother, sobbing hysterically from lack of sleep, sure that you wouldn't last through the night. Nights spent at the hospital – alone. Nights spent at home – alone. Those first couple of months before going back to work nearly drove you insane.

Yet here's Amanda, relatively bright, relatively awake, with a baby who doesn't cry, sure she wants to go back to work as soon as possible. You don't know how she does it. She needs the money, you know that much. She also needs the job, like you needed it…still need it, possibly.

"If we can help in any way, you know we will."

"I know, thanks. Carisi's practically forcing me to let him babysit." She smiles, again. She is smiling so much more than she used to just now. "Which is nice, because then I can at least take a shower every once in a while." Her hand immediately goes to the baby carriage again as she peaks inside.

"That helps. And if you ever need to get out…"

"Yeah. Thanks. We should do this more often." You exchange a look, and you both know this won't be a day to day thing, that you won't be BFFs heading to the park together with your kids anytime soon. That would be too much. But you knew she needed to get out after all this time inside and the weeks on bed rest, you know she's grateful for any kind of adult contact. And you? Well, you need the clear sky above your head, the fresh air around you, more than anything. It's what keeps you sane while you're off duty. Mostly.

"Look, 'manda!" Noah runs up to you, holding something indistinguishable in his palm. "Look!" He holds it out to her, and the first thing you can see is her smile freeze a little, before you realise what the brown thing really is…

"That's…dried up cat poo, Noah" she explains patiently, searching for baby wipes in her huge diaper bag.

You grab one of the tissues you always have on hand and hold it out to him, cupped in your palm. "Here, put it in there."

"It's for 'manda!" he replies with a proud expression, like he has just discovered a precious jewel.

"Thanks, that's nice, but I think we better give that to Mommy, huh? It's a bit yucky."

"Yucky" he repeats with a grimace.

You throw it away as Amanda cleans his hands, trying not to care how happily he lets her do it, unlike you. He scrambles away from her quickly, though, to try and climb onto the wheel of the baby carriage to peek inside. "Whass baby doing?"

"I don't know- careful!" You lift him up a bit so he can take a better look. He is fascinated by Jesse so far, but more like one would be fascinated by a new toy than a person. After insisting she was "his baby" at first, he quickly got jealous when you held her, and demanded to be carried some of the way to the playground, which he is really getting too heavy for.

His little hand pats her face clumsily so he's almost hitting her until you stop him. "Gently, gently." She barely gives a small mewl as you take his hand and you both stroke her head more softly.

"Fuzzy" he remarks at her thin whiff of hair peeking out from underneath her beanie.

"Yeah, very soft."

You set him back down, and he begins to try and pull himself up by the handlebar. "Would you like to push her, Noah?" Amanda asks, unlocking the wheels and helping him move the large object around, keeping him from crashing into things as you sit and watch.

And just as you think "yes, this isn't so bad, life isn't so bad", just as you have a few seconds to yourself with no darkness lurking at the back of your mind, your phone rings. One glance at the display tells you all you need to know, because even though you have a different phone, you never did manage to delete his number from your cloud and imported it. Maybe you should have. The urge to answer is strong, just to hear his voice. But you don't. This phone call is for the wrong reasons. What do you say to someone after nearly two years? What do you say to him after this?

"Tucker?" Amanda asks casually over her shoulder, and you know she has been filled in thoroughly by the clueless gossip column that is your department.

"No. Nothing important."