Hello! So almost a year ago, nightwitch87 wrote an amazing post-Chasing Demons fic called Persistence. I started to write a review, and then realized I had way too many feelings about it, so I asked her if I could write my own story set after the events of her fic. She very generously said yes, and I started writing...and then got blocked. It sat on my computer for almost a year, but then when I found out that Brian was returning for an ep this month, I decided it was now or never to get this thing finished. This is pretty self-explanatory on its own, but you should still read Persistence if you appreciate good bensidy fic, because you won't be disappointed. I only hope I did it justice!

A/N: Set post-Chasing Demons, so there's discussion of child sexual abuse. Title and quotes from hold back the river by james bay.

Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear what you think either here or on twitter. :)

The little boy on the screen is finally sleeping soundly, breaths coming slow and even as he clutches his stuffed elephant to his chest. You switch the iPad off and put your empty wine glass in the sink. You'll wash it tomorrow, but right now you don't want to take the risk that the sound of running water will awaken Noah.

The child psychologist you've been taking him to told you to stop sleeping in his room (or letting him sleep in yours); that he needs normalcy and routine in order to reassure him that you'll still be here in the morning. It's like when he was an infant, all that shit about attachment and learning to self-soothe, except this time you occasionally cheat and let him crawl into your bed when the mommy guilt starts to wear at you.

Not tonight, though. You tiredly strip the bed and then decide not to bother with a top sheet, putting on the mattress cover and then throwing the blankets on over it. No need to tuck them in when they'll all end up on the floor by night's end.

You reach for your pillow and are surprised by the strength of the sense memory that washes over you. It's not the scent that you're used to, the cherry shampoo that Noah picked out because the bottle was shaped like a fish. Instead it's something that reminds you of long sleepless nights and shorter ones where sleep was found at the bottom of a bottle, of fleeting smiles and touches and angry words and doing it all over again this afternoon.

'If you're under him, you ain't getting over him', according to a song that Noah heard once on the radio and promptly memorized. But you are over Brian, you have been for a long time, and the events of today did nothing to change that.

No, this was just a plain old bad idea from two people who were just plain old enough to know better. You could blame it on the fact that it's been so long since you've had sex, but you can't even say that you really miss it most days. And you could blame that on the exhaustion that comes with being a lieutenant and a single mom, because you are exhausted, but it's more than garden variety fatigue. Sex comes with too many caveats, too many 'don'ts' and 'I can'ts ' and too many well-meaning questions that are just too hard to answer from someone who might be gone in a night (or worse, might stick around). Intimacy was never your forte, least of all now.

But Brian gets it, realizes that you were never going to bare your soul and all its scars to him, and that's not about to change despite the years that have passed in the interim. You could let him see your physical scars, though, even if you're unsure whether your newfound bravery is due to confidence or just apathy.

It's far from the best sex you've ever had. There's none of the intensity that you might expect from two people reconnecting after years have passed, but there's still a sense of urgency. You don't stop to look in his eyes or stroke his cheek or whisper into his ear, and neither does he, as if you're both aware that this spell between you is fragile and fleeting. If you slow down for even a fraction of a second, all the walls between you will return and you'll be forced to confront what's really going on. There will be time for regret later.

You thought that time was now, but your plans to chastise yourself for this lapse in judgment are interrupted when exhaustion overtakes you.

{stop for a minute and see where you hide}

The phone rings, jolting you out of slumber, and you reach for it without opening your eyes. "Benson."

"Uh. Hey." When you don't respond right away, he adds "It's me. Brian."

With your eyes still closed, you rub the bridge of your nose. Leave it to him to introduce himself like he thinks you might not remember him, despite dating for a year and a half and having sex not even 12 hours ago. "Yeah. I...I know."

"I just...did I leave a sock at your place?"

He did, actually, left it on the floor between your bed and the wall. How he managed to get dressed, lace up his boots, and head out the door without noticing this is beyond you. It's something you'd expect from your son, followed by a passive-aggressive note sent home in his backpack asking you to 'please send Noah to school properly dressed.' "Um, yeah, you did."

"Okay, good. I'm...glad you found it," he says, and you manage to refrain from asking where else he thought it possibly could have been. "You, ah, you weren't sleeping, right?"

"Not at all-"

"Can I tell you a story?"

You want to explain to him that you don't have this kind of relationship anymore, the kind where you call each other up and pour your heart out to one another at 3 AM. But then you realize...you never had it in the first place. That day outside the courthouse, when he had just survived being falsely accused of rape and all he had to say was 'do you want to go somewhere and not talk about it'? That was the true Brian; that was the crux of your relationship. So whatever it was that he had to say now, it was something that you needed to stay up and hear. "Alright."

He's silent for just a beat too long, like he had already resigned himself to you turning him down. "Oh. Yeah, so. D'you remember how my mom made me take piano lessons as a kid?"

"Mmhmm." You recall visiting his mother's house, how she brought out her old photo albums of her only son and showed them off with the excitement of someone who had waited so long to have somebody new hear all her stories. More than a few pictures were of an elementary school-aged Brian sitting at a piano bench or singing in a church choir. He was an angel, see? He had so much talent. It's such a shame he gave it up. "And you hated it."

"I really did," he said with a quiet snicker, almost like he was laughing in spite of himself. "Anyway, Mom told me I could quit when I turned 12. So I did. Like, literally that day. On my birthday."

"You must have broken her heart. Did she cry?"

"Oh man, yeah! She did."

He pauses again, and you hold yourself back from asking if this was going anywhere. It wouldn't be the first of his drunken ramblings that didn't, but then you remember his soft uncertainty in asking can I tell you a story?, and how there was a clarity in his voice that could only come from being stone cold sober...and scared. please don't get mad at me, you can hear him silently pleading in between words. "Bri?"

"Yeah. Oh, yeah," he says in response to your gentle prompting. "But then Mom started to get pissed that I was spending too much time on my ass in front of the TV, and she said I had to find something else to do. A couple of my buddies were playing Little League baseball with the parks department, so I decided I'd do that too. And it was kinda fun, not as much as hockey, but I was alright at it. I hit a homer, once, and I was so proud of myself. Didn't shut up about it for a week."

You smile, picturing a preteen Brian boasting of his accomplishments to anyone who would listen. It reminded you of when Noah finally mastered skipping last month and wanted to let everyone, including strangers on the train, know about it. "I bet."

"The only thing that sucked is that my sisters were supposed to take turns coming to pick me up after practice. But they were always busy at the mall with their friends or making out with guys when they were supposed to be at the library, so I got forgotten a lot."

You're ashamed to admit that you can envision young Brian's face perfectly, because you've seen your son's forlorn expression when he's once again the last kid to get picked up at preschool. It's always because of the job, not because you're some careless mother who can't keep track of time, but try explaining that to a four year old. "So what did you do?"

"It was too far to walk home, and my coach said it wasn't safe for me to be hanging out in the park by myself, so he'd give me a lift because we lived in the same neighborhood anyway. And I mean...at first, it was fine. He was cool."

at first, it was fine. Hearing those words feels like being abruptly shoved off of a ledge, your heart and stomach in freefall, because you know what's coming next. What always comes next. "Brian..."

"No, Liv, damnit...just hear me out? Lemme get to the end of...this."

"Alright," you say, still feeling like you're suspended in mid-air because you just don't see how this is going to get any better.

"He was a nice guy. Totally normal, right? He had a house, he had a job, he used to have a wife and kids. They'd all died in a car wreck. At least, that's what he said, but that might've been bullshit. Who knows. Anyway, so he'd give me rides home. Nothing weird about it. He was always kind of a touchy feely guy...hugs, shoulder rubs, that sorta thing. He was that way with everyone, so I didn't think anything of it. Until. It wasn't just that."

"Brian..." you say again, because your mind and your mouth can't seem to form any other words. You've heard similar stories so often that there's been times when you've worried that you're becoming numb to them. That you've taken on so much vicarious suffering that you've now lost the ability to react as a human and not just a by-the-books cop. But then you hear things like these coming from someone who still has a place in your head and your heart, no matter how many times you've denied it, and you realize you're not numb at all.

"Don't, I don't want you to think...it wasn't that bad," and how many times have you yourself said some version of that same phrase? it wasn't like that, really, I'm fine. "He didn't...hurt me. It was just. Other stuff."

"But that still doesn't make it right," you remind him, because even though you know that he knows, you're also well aware that knowing and believing can be two very different and unconnected entities. "It doesn't mean you weren't affected, or that you aren't allowed to feel angry about it."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. I've heard it before, okay," he says, and you don't try to chastise him because you've been there. You understand, even more so when you hear him swallow hard on the other end of the line. "Just- don't. Don't say anything."

You grant him this request, both of you silent except for the sounds of your breathing, and you're struck by how badly you want to reach through the phone and just fix it. To say the magic words or do the right things that'll make all the hurt disappear. It's an emotion that you remember well from your childhood, knowing that something was wrong and yet being powerless to change it. It's the reason why you entered the Academy as a naive 22 year old and it's the reason you get up and put on your badge every morning, still seeking that validation that you're making a difference. And when you hear a soft snuffle, barely audible, the pain in your chest grows so strong that you reflexively press your hand against your breastbone. "Bri."

"I don't want you to feel sorry for me, okay, I don't want your fuckin' pity. I'm over it."

"Except when you're not," you say knowingly, letting out a sigh that turns into a gasp. "Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way. I wasn't talking about-"

"It's alright," he promises. "I...I get what you're saying. And you're probably right. Just like always, huh?"

"I'm not always right." You laugh ruefully under your breath.

"Wow, never thought I'd hear you admit it...I mean, I'm sorry. That was a dick move, I shouldn't have said that."

"It's okay," you tell him, and you actually mean it.

"So I'm thinking...I dunno. You think I should go to therapy or something?"

For someone who's been known to give a bit of unsolicited advice, you're caught off guard by him actually asking for your opinion. "I...well. I think the main question you have to ask yourself is, what are you wanting to get out of it? What are your expectations?"

"Uh," he says, sounding a bit bewildered. "Aren't I just supposed to talk? About feelings and shit?"

"Is that what you want?"

"No." He pauses. "I saw this thing online for art therapy. I guess instead of talking, you draw stuff...do you think I'd be good at that?"

You try to keep the smile out of your voice, because he sounds so earnest about it and you don't want to dissuade him. "It doesn't matter whether you're good at it, Bri...you can't fail therapy. I promise. What's important is if it's something you think you'd feel comfortable with. I mean, do you like art?"

"Yeah. Well, I guess I do. Like, I used to draw when I was a kid. Just doodling comic characters and stuff, but I was kinda okay at it. I think."

"Wow, how come you never told me that?" you ask. "I don't think I've ever seen you draw something."

"Eh, I stopped doing it as a teenager."

"But why? Just no time in between hockey and breaking your mom's heart by not singing?" you tease, figuring he'd appreciate the slight comic relief.

"Nah. Some kid on the bus told me it was faggy so I just...stopped."

You tilt your head back and close your eyes, not only because you hurt for him, but because this is the world you're going to have to deal with as the mom of a boy and it's a reminder that you have no idea how to navigate it. "Bri. I'm sorry. But I think that if it's something you want to pick up again, something that's fun and relaxing, then yes. I think you'd be good at it."

"My parents tried, y'know. They took me to some kiddie shrink but I just sat there because...I was a kid, right, I had no idea what to say." You reassure him that it's okay, that you understand. Noah's much younger than Brian was at the time, of course, so he doesn't have that same preteen self-consciousness, but you're pretty sure he spends at least half of his own therapy sessions acting out the plot of that Lego Batman movie he's seen 1200 times. His therapist says it's fine, that the important part is that he feels comfortable sharing whatever's on his mind, and yet you still worry that this is a sign of some sort of parental failure. So maybe Brian's not the only one concerned about 'doing it right'.

"Don't blame them, though. They did what they could," he says. "But you know how it was back in the day. The doctor said they should just act normal and go on with life and then I would too. It's not like they ever said 'hey, don't talk about it', but I could tell that it'd bum them out if I did."

"Do you wish they would've talked to you about it more?"

"Eh. At the time, no. I mean, what kid wants to talk to their folks about...you know. Sex shit."

It's an area where you yourself have precious little expertise. So far, Noah has been satisfied with the explanation that 'babies grow in a lady's tummy'. But you talk to him often about good vs. bad touch and keeping hands to ourselves, to the point where now he just rolls his eyes and says 'I know, Mommy, I know' before you can even get the words out, so you can understand how it must feel to broach the subject with a preteen. "So they just stopped trying?"

"Yeah. My dad was like 'Son, y'know, the human body reacts to certain things, and just because it does, that doesn't mean you're-' and his face was just, I mean, bright fuckin' red. So I had to jump in and say 'it's cool, Dad, we don't have to talk about this' and I think he was...relieved."

You bite your bottom lip, swallowing hard a few times because you don't want him to be able to sense from your voice that you're tearing up.

"It's okay, really, it's done. It's not something I usually ever think about," he says in a way that you know from experience means that he does think about it more than occasionally, "but sometimes. Sometimes it comes back."

"Like now, with this case."

"My mom told me a few months ago," he blurts out, seeming not to have heard you, "she thinks maybe that's why I'm a, you know. I'm 46 years old and still can't keep a relationship. I think she's giving up on me."

"Brian..."

"I mean, I try. It just never works out. Something always goes wrong. Like the last date I went on...I take this woman I work with out for a drink and the next thing I know, you're being accused of child abuse. How does this shit always happen to me?"

You're still not ready to completely absolve him for that incident, but to hear him tell it like that makes it almost amusing. Almost. "Brian...can I give you a tip?"

"Go for it, yeah."

"Why did that subject even come up in the first place? Because women- we don't usually like to hear stories about a guy's exes on the first date. Especially stories that are...complicated like that."

"Huh," he says, as if something has clicked into place and he's having a moment of insight. "See, I screw shit up every time. Maybe that's what Mom was talking about."

"You're a good guy. I mean it. You're not hopeless, you just need to work on your technique."

He hums, probably cataloging this information away for future use. "So. Yeah. I just wanted to know if you found my sock. That's all."

"Your sock..." You're confused for a moment, having completely forgotten about his original excuse for this call.

"Maybe- I can stop by and get it some time? That's all. Just...that. Don't wanna bother you."

"Bri...this doesn't change anything. You know that, right?"

He snorts. "What the hell, Olivia, I didn't call you in the middle of the night and tell you this whole shitty story because I wanted some ass. Or because I thought it'd get you to take me back or- I don't want it, I don't need your fuckin' pity. Jesus Christ, I-"

"Woah. No. That's not...no," you stammer, cursing silently when you realize how that sounded- namely, the exact opposite of how you wanted it to sound. And yes, it has been a very long day/week/decade, but that's no excuse considering how often you've chided Brian about not thinking before he speaks. "That's not what I meant-"

"Yeah. Yeah, it was."

"No." Goddamnit, Benson, this man calls you in the middle of the night to pour out his soul to you, to tell you something he's probably wrestled with disclosing to you for two decades- and this is how you react? "Please. I know that came out badly but please. Hear me out. This is important."

He huffs, not unlike the way Noah does when you ask him to turn down the TV when you're talking to him. I'll do what you say, mom, but I want it on the record that I'm not happy about it. "What I was trying to say, and I really fucked it up, was- I don't think of you any differently now. You're still the same person to me. You don't have to...slink away in embarrassment."

"I'm not slinking," he complains, and if you weren't already absolutely sure of Noah's parentage, you might be tempted to ask Brian for a DNA sample.

"Do you remember what you said to me when I was in the hospital?" you ask.

"Um. What specifically?"

"I was in the bathroom trying to get dressed and I couldn't get my pants on with one hand. You were sitting on the other side of the door and you asked if you could help."

"I remember. You got mad and made me call the nurse," he says. "Right? Am I missing something?"

"No, no. After the nurse left...you looked me right in the eyes and said-" You pause to collect yourself, surprised by a sudden swell of emotion. "You said 'you know this doesn't change who you are, and I'm not going anywhere'."

"Oh yeah. Right," he says, probably remembering how poorly his words were received at the time.

"And then I got mad again. I wasn't mad at you, though...I was angry that I was in a situation where you would have to say those things in the first place. But still...I'm glad you did," you admit. "Because I needed to hear them, and I think that right now maybe you need to hear them too."

He's quiet for another prolonged moment. "I wanted to tell you for a long time, Liv, I really did. I was thinking about it even before...everything. But after that, it never felt like a good time and I didn't know how you'd take it. I didn't want to be a burden on you, or make you think that I was trying to say that what happened to me was worse than what happened to you, because-"

"It's okay, Bri. If there's one thing I've learned from therapy, it's that suffering isn't a competition. We don't have to measure our feelings, or our experiences, against someone else's."

"Huh. Do you think maybe I could learn deep shit like that in therapy?"

"If that's what you want, yeah." You smile at his words, but then your voice turns serious again. "Sometimes I wonder if I might've...if part of me was trying to make our relationship as difficult as possible just because I wanted to test what you had said. If you really meant it when you said you weren't going to leave." You pinch the bridge of your nose between your thumb and forefinger. "And yes, I know that's fucked up. It's self-sabotage. Learned that in therapy too."

"And I think...maybe part of the reason I got so pissed that you wouldn't open up to me is that I knew what it felt like to keep shit all bottled up for years. I thought it was too late for me, but I didn't want you to go through that too."

"We're a lot alike, you and me. Neither of us is very good when it comes to that kind of thing."

"Yeah, but I didn't make it any easier on you when I was gone all the time. I should've been there. But I couldn't make myself give up the...I think that's what I always liked about being UC. Getting to be someone else for a while. And then when I retired and didn't have that anymore- I kinda started losing it a little. Thinking too much."

You remember how eager you were to get back to work, how putting on that badge made you feel like badass detective Benson and not the Benson who woke up every night thrashing around in hysterics after another nightmare. How that one little accessory let you pretend that you were the same person you were before. "I get that. But...Bri?"

"Huh?"

"You did the best you could. I know you did."

"You did too, Liv."

You're not sure that's true, but you know that's something to unpack with your therapist at your next appointment and not at 2 a.m. with your emotionally vulnerable ex-boyfriend. You also know that you've taken this conversation as far as it should go for tonight, and you need to bring it to a close and get some sleep before you overstep boundaries the way you already did just a few hours ago. "So. I'll leave it up to you. But if sometime you want to come over and we can have coffee and catch up...I'd like that."

"I'd...me too."

"I mean it this time," you say firmly. "Coffee. Not sex."

You hear him chuckle. "I'll even keep my socks on."