A/N: All will be explained in due time. Also, two updates less than a week apart...don't get used to it.


-1993-

Almost a week post your unplanned pregnancy announcement, you sit on the floor of your bathroom. Sixty dollars worth of pregnancy tests are scattered about in front of you along with a bottle of pre-natal vitamins and an ultrasound photo. For some reason, despite the photo and being told that you're almost five months along, you still felt the need to be a hundred percent certain you're pregnant. Your willingness to believe a plastic stick and an etch-a-sketch plus or minus instead of a licensed doctor is definitely indicative to your current state of mind.

Ever since Dr. Seville had shouted the words 'pregnant' at you, you've been in a haze. You'd come home to Elliot eagerly waiting to help you feel better. 'Stomach flu' you'd mumbled before calling off work, crawling into bed, and pulling the covers over your head. Elliot had brought you ginger ale, saltines and soup, all of which you'd opted against for a carton of moose tracks and a salami sandwich once he'd left for work the next morning. You know you have to tell him, you do; he's about to become someone's father; but first you have to figure out how to wrap your head around the fact that you're about to become someone's mother.

You're pregnant.

Pregnant.

And you're not really sure how to feel. First and foremost, it scares the shit out of you. The prospect of this tiny human-being being solely dependent on you for everything is terrifying. Your husband being dependent upon you is one thing, a baby is an entirely other.

Frankly, you're not ready. Not for any of it. Not the pregnancy, the onslaught of hormones, nor the birth, nor the 2AM feedings and diapers. Not when you have so much you want to get done, not when you have so much you need to sort through. From the career you've just started, to your feelings towards motherhood that stem from your own mother (who stopped speaking to you two years ago, after you'd said 'I do' to Elliot), you're just not ready.

Sighing, you fidget, the fluff of the lavender carpet itching your bare thighs as you yank on the hem of Elliot's t-shirt and sink against the bathtub.

Two minutes left to go before six plastic sticks confirm what you already know.

How the hell did this happen?

You think back to five months ago, to the month of November and chuckle to yourself derisively. You know exactly how; Elliot's promotion. You'd celebrated the only way you knew how from sun up to sun down. Somewhere amidst all the commotion and confusion, you'd forgotten your pills too.

And now here you are. Your fingers shake as you slowly begin to overturn test after test, praying that your doctor and all of her top-notch medical equipment are wrong. Six plus signs stare back at you, confirming what you already know; you're pregnant (and you just wasted sixty dollars). Tears brim your eye and it takes everything in you to stifle the sob that threatens to bubble up your throat.

What are you going to do?

Think, Olivia. Think. Twenty-four isn't too young to have a baby. It's not. Your mom had you had twenty-four. Your mom. Serena. Ha! Oh, that's a really great example there. How many times did she kick the shit out of you?

The bathroom door swings open, banging against the wall and interrupting your thoughts. Elliot comes into view, a look of confusion plastered across his face.

You must've been in the bathroom longer than you'd originally thought. He wasn't scheduled to get off until 6 and you'd staggered in after running down to the corner bodega around 3.

"Liv…"

Bleary eyed, your bottom lip trembles as your reluctant gaze meets his.

"What's wrong, Liv? Liv...hey, baby…" he drops down to his knees and you hear a crunching sound. You both look to see what his wingtips landed on. One of your tests.

Your tests. Shit.

He picks it up, eyes moving from you to the object in hand.

This isn't how you wanted to tell him.

"Is this...is this...you're, you're pregnant?" the joy in his tone is like a knife to the heart. Try as you might, you cannot mimic his happiness. The tears slip down your cheeks and you wipe at your eyes.

You're a shitty mother already.

You don't respond, but you don't have to either. By the time you fix your lips to say the word, to confirm the happiness that's already spreading throughout his body, he's already found the ultrasound.

Next thing you know, he's lifting you off your feet and holding you tightly. He kisses your forehead, your cheeks, and lips before yanking your shirt up, bending down to kiss the tiny, almost unnoticeable pudge of your stomach.

You wish his enthusiasm was contagious, you wish you were half as excited, but you're not.

You feel like you're suffocating in the middle of the street for the entire world to see.

-Present Day-

The first thing you do when you get off the plane is head for a bathroom. For once you're glad that Jonah had insisted on buying you a first class ticket instead of letting you buying your own coach seat. Less people near you meant less people to see through the stoic facade plastered to your face or the stray tears that pushed passed your eyelids. For two hours you were left alone with your thoughts and all you could think of was Elliot and the look in his eyes as he'd pushed past you.

After what you did to me, after what happened . . . you let me do that to someone else.

You never had any intention of sleeping with Elliot. Hell, you never had any intention of seeing him again. Actually, you'd never thought you'd step foot back in Manhattan. You truly had no reason to. Your mother died four years ago and she had been your only connection left outside of Alex to the island. Well, you technically had one more connection, but that one hurt to think about.

The bathroom's packed as you enter it. People line the walls waiting on a stall when all you want is a mirror. You make a beeline for an empty sink to study your reflection. It takes a moment, but somehow you manage to drag your eyes up. You look rough, to put it lightly. There are dark circles around your eyes and your hair is all over the place. It hadn't taken too well to the air of the cabin and once again you silently kick yourself for not drying it back at the hotel. You hadn't dried it for fear of waking Elliot, who had awakened anyways. That look in his eyes as he realized the gold band on your hand was more than just a decoration will haunt you forever.

You broke his heart. Again.

Cold water hits your face and you barely flinch, opting for the pins and needles sensation it creates against your skin instead of turning on the warm water. The sensation keeps you grounded in the present, it keeps the thoughts of last night and how wrong, yet how right it'd all felt. God, you've fucked everything to hell. Elliot. Jonah. Your sweet Jonah who's probably outside waiting for you while you're hiding in the bathroom with thoughts of another man to keep you company.

Gathering your things, you take a once over of your reflection to insure that the hickeys you know line your body are well below the collar of your shirt. You wouldn't be taking your clothes off in front of your husband any time soon. At least not until Elliot's fingerprints disappeared from your thighs and the feel of his mouth on your chest faded from memory. Once you're sure you have everything, you head out to your husband.

/

You spot Jonah's silver Lexus GX as you emerge from the sliding doors of the airport. Your heart drops to your knees and you have the strong urge to throw up. Hours ago you were rolling around in bed with Elliot. You were naked beneath the man who'd been your first and whom you'd at one time promised to be your last. And Jonah, sweet Jonah; the man you'd met in Millennial Park on a warm afternoon in July. Well you'd actually met his daughter first, when she'd teetered up to you, babbling incoherent two-year old gibberish and he'd frantically followed behind, calling her name. Before Jonah you hadn't really looked for love in Chicago; a few dates here and there, a couple of boyfriends that didn't last longer than six months a piece (if that). But Jonah, he'd stuck around. Somehow he, and Charlotte, found their way into your heart.

Jonah must spot you, too, because he gets out of the car and rushes over towards you. His kind eyes, a darker brown than yours, glisten against the bright Chicago sun. He's still dressed in his white lab coat and dress pants, which means after he drops you off at home, he'll be heading back to the hospital. Part of you is glad, it'll give you a moment to sort through your head, but the other part of you feels guilty for not wanting to spend time with your husband.

"There's my girl." He grins, his lips meet yours and you return his soft kiss.

Cheater, cheater, cheater.

He grabs your suitcase from your hand and you move to protest, to tell him that he really doesn't need to help you because your suitcase isn't that heavy, but he's already headed back to the car.

You meet him at the passenger door and roll your eyes as he insists on opening it for you. Jonah was about seventeen years your senior and still held onto the idea of chivalry - or, as he called it, courtesy for the one you love. You toss your purse into the car and get in, hoping to find Charlotte in the back seat, but no such luck. She's probably soaking up the sunrays of the playground at recess. Some days you couldn't believe the two year old who'd stumbled upon you in the park is going on six years old.

"So," Jonah says as you settle into your seat and buckle up. He reaches for your hand across the counsel and you fight the urge to curl your first against your thigh. He's such a sweet man, he's been so good to you for so long, and you...cheated on him. "Am I gonna ever get to see you in that dress? Is Alex sending us any photos? I bet you looked beautiful. Maybe you can pull it out and Char can play dress up in it?"

A staunch 'no' flies out of your mouth so fast that Jonah casts a sideways glance your way. You can't fathom putting that dress back on after how you'd taken it off let alone letting your daughter play in it. "I mean it's not really my dress. It belongs to Alyssa, Alex's cousin and I kinda ripped it."

Jonah laughs, shaking his head, before he puts the car into drive. He pulls out of his parking spot and heads home.

/

You often wonder what your mother would say if she could see you now. Olivia Benson-Anderson, the wife of a world-renowned cardiologist with a house bigger than you could've ever imagined (far too big for your taste, if you're being honest). Would she be happy that you're no longer a cop - or married to one for that matter? She'd argued with you for weeks about your decision to enter the academy and stopped speaking to you all together when you told her that you had, indeed, married Elliot. She'd hated Elliot; she'd called him arrogant, cocky, and self-righteous. Which had only served to push you further in his direction. Would she have liked Jonah, Elliot's proverbial opposite; the man with golden hands and an 83% surgical success rate that wouldn't brag to save his life?

Or would she bulk at how complacent you've become? At how predictable and safe your existence is? How nights in with your (sometimes boring) husband and your five year old daughter were your activity of choice? You didn't get out much anymore unless Jonah had an event he needed you to attend with him. You went to work at the youth center, volunteered at the rape crisis center, and came home. Wash, rinse, and repeat.

Your mother had always talked of you having more for you life. You wonder if this is the more she'd spoken of or if she'd had something else entirely in mind.

"Olivia?"

Huh?

You turn to see Jonah standing in the doorway of your bedroom. You blink hard, realizing that you've been staring at the wall for the last ten minutes with your still unpacked suitcase at your feet.

"You okay?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine. Just tired that's all." You lie, a tight lip smile crossing your face. "It was a long weekend."

Jonah nods understandingly. "I get it, Char and I were going crazy without you, but I'm glad you had a good time. You had a good time, right?" He asks with a slight raise of his brow.

Again you nod. Yeah, you had had a good time. Too good of a time.

You bend down to unzip your suitcase and the first thing you come into contact with is that damn dress. The ripped tulle mocks you and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from screaming. Every moment of last night washes over you in waves: the walk up to your hotel room, the small talk, the witty banter, Elliot's fingertips on your thighs, his lips grazing every inch of your body. Every transgression you committed against your husband, every crime you committed against Elliot is emblazoned on that tulle.

That stupid tulle on that damn dress.

Blood floods your mouth and you realize, in an attempt to stifle your impulse to scream, you've broken skin. God you're losing it.

"You sure you're okay, Livvie?"

"I'm fine," you repeat, this time with more conviction. You're anything but fine. You're a cheater. A whore and a slut who just broke the heart of the man you'd once promised to love and cherish till death did you part. Again. Apparently once ten years ago hadn't been enough for you. Apparently vows didn't mean shit to you either because you'd broken yours to Jonah. You're a horrible person. "I'm just really tired. I think I need to take a nap."

Something in your tone must tell Jonah you're not really in the mood to talk because he casts a solemn nod in your direction and leaves you to your own devices.

You get to your feet and crawl into bed without even taking your shoes off. Your eyes slip shut, and though you're not completely tired, eventually you fall asleep.

/

An hour later you awake to a bouncing bed and a stream of giggles.

Charlotte.

"Mommy." she whispers as she climbs onto the bed. Her tiny hands come into contact with your cheeks and she places a kiss on your forehead.

You crack an eye open to find the sweetest of sights. Charlotte. Her big brown eyes are filled with joy and excitement as she stares back at you. Her spiral curls are frizzy and her already light brown skin is sun-kissed.

"Mommy!" she repeats once more, grinning at you as she settles into bed next to you, her legs thrown over your midsection, her head on your pillow. "You're back!"

"I am!" you laugh as you sit up and rest your back against the headboard. "And you're home from school! Did daddy get you out early or have I been sleeping that long?"

"Daddy came and got me. He said you were sad so I had to come make you feel better. You can't be sad Mama, remember we're gonna have a girl's night tonight?"

Your heart simultaneously breaks and mends as you listen to Charlotte's words. You're briefly reminded of your own childhood and telling your mother the exact same thing after one of her many vodka binges.

"I'm not sad, baby, just tired. But I do remember! It's just you and me all day!"

Charlotte's excitement gets the better of her and she jumps into your lap. She throws her thin arms around your neck and hugs you tightly. You return her enthusiasm, hand smoothing over the frizz of her waist length curls. You can't fathom how her mother had ever abandoned her.

"Can our day start now? Can we kick daddy out and do things now? I wanna watch Mulan!"

You're ready to answer her when you hear chuckling. You look up to find Jonah in the doorway again; he's wearing his consult coat and carries a black duffle in hand.

"You're gonna kick daddy out? I'm insulted!" he feigns hurt before dumping his bag on the ground and shuffling into the bedroom. He comes towards your side of the bed and you glance down, watching as he bypasses your dress of shame.

"No boys allowed!" Charlotte shouts before collapsing on the bed in a fit of giggles. You watch as Jonah takes that as his Q to tickle her until she's breathless. The scene warms your heart and you're suddenly reminded of how this could've been your life ages ago, with someone else.

"Okay, okay," you interrupt, separating father and daughter. "Enough of that before someone throws up or gets kicked where they don't want to be kicked." you warm and Jonah backs down. Charlotte sits up, brushing the wild locks of hair from her face.

"I hope you keep that no boys attitude forever," Jonah adds as he fixes his tie and runs a hand through his salt and pepper hair. You roll your eyes and Charlotte pulls a face of disgust. Seemingly satisfied with his daughter's response, Jonah turns his attention back to you.

"Alright, I've gotta head back to work. I've got a CABG at five and need to start prepping."

You nod your response only somewhat familiar with his doctor lingo. You weren't exactly certain what CABG meant but you knew it involved an open chest and Jonah's hands on a heart.

"So you two have fun tonight and I'll see you around midnight." He moves to kiss you and for some reason you tense. Elliot's face flashes across your mind and you fight to not pull back. You return his kiss best you can before he breaks it. He kisses Charlotte on the forehead and smiles as she crawls into your lap. "Love you."

"Love you too," you and Charlotte tell him in unison, although the words feel foreign on your tongue.

A content Jonah treads out of the room, and you listen as his car pulls out of the driveway.

Moments later you and Charlotte sit in complacent silence. She yanks on her dress shoes, tossing them to the floor and you run a hand through her hair. Her curls slip through your fingers as she turns in your arms. Those big brown eyes of hers meet yours and for a brief moment you feel as if she is peering directly into your soul, as if she knows everything about you. Even the parts you'd rather forget.

"Something wrong baby?" you ask, undoing the buttons on the suspender straps of her school uniform skirt to help her get more comfortable.

Confusion colors her countenance. "Who's Elliot?"

If you weren't sitting down, you're almost certain you would've passed out. Hearing Elliot's name fall from your daughter's mouth throws you for a loop; her father doesn't even know your ex-husband's name.

You swallow hard, suddenly feeling like last night's escapades are written all over your face. Cheater. Cheater. Cheater.

"Where'd you hear that name at, Char?" you question warily.

"You were saying it in your sleep when I came in here. You kept saying 'Elliot, I'm sorry.' Who's Elliot and why are you sorry?"

Shit. Shit. Shit.

You don't even remember dreaming let alone mumbling your ex's name. Your subconscious is one hell of a sonofabitch and now you have to figure out how the hell to shut it up before your husband hears it.

"Just somebody I used to know," and that I hurt "a long time ago. Now, how about we get our girls' day started?"

You don't give her time to respond, to ask any other questions that you know hang on her lips, you hop to your feet and lift her onto your hip, heading straight for the kitchen.

-1993-

Elliot's been trying for three days now to pump some sort of excitement into you over your ever-expanding waist. His efforts have gone unappreciated on your end, however, his happiness non-transferrable. Aside from that occasional nod of the head or unintelligible garble, you've been a passive participant in his pregnancy fantasies. He's already started sorting through baby name books and looking at cribs. You've eaten your weight in pistachio ice cream and chili cheese fries.

Today, his latest attempt at getting you riled up and on the parent train is his purchase of an oversized t-shirt in a nauseating bright pink that read 'Mom-to-Be' in bright white letters. God you just wish he'd stop in the midst of all of his excitement and ask you what's wrong. You wish he'd do more than offer to buy you pregnancy books or ask to feel your stomach every other minute. And you definitely wish he'd stop demanding that you speak to your captain and change your beat route into paper pushing or at least first watch. On the job is the only place you seem to be able to clear your head lately, and out of all the changes you're about to go through, you're determined to keep that one stable.

Which is why you can't wait to break free for work tonight. Who would've thought that the prospect of sitting in a police cruiser with your partner, who took the cop role a little too seriously by shoving donuts in his mouth and knocking back ten cups of coffee, would be a safe haven for you? You need to get away from the baby talk, the constant bombarding of setting appointments and creating to-do lists.

Another hour and you'd be free of the dreaded B word until tomorrow around dinnertime. Third watch had somehow become your favorite shift the last few days; 7pm – 4am, nine hours of an escape. All you had to do was finish your dinner extra healthy dinner Elliot made you after work consisting of salmon, spinach, and brown rice. None of which sounded appetizing to you at the least. You wanted a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a pickle.

You're in the middle of picking at your salmon with your fork when Elliot slides into the seat across from you.

"Take your vitamins?" he asks softly and something inside of you cracks.

Frustrated, you drop your fork and push away from the table. You know that this is just his excitement getting the better of him, and that the prospect of being a father is everything to him right now, but in truth, you just want to ring his neck. You get it, you know; you're pregnant. Everything you do now affects someone else. Your body is home to someone else, someone who's going to be solely reliant on you for food, shelter, love, and affection. You get it. You really do. What you wish he would take a second to get, to understand, and to see, however, is your ambivalence and hesitancy for what it is: fear. What if you can't do this? You don't know the first thing about raising a child - making a bottle, changing a diaper. You never really had a good example of a mother, either. Serena spent more time nursing a bottle of vodka than she spent nursing you. How could you be a decent mother when you didn't have a good example of one?

You thought Elliot knew you well enough to know this without you having to tell him, but it seems as if he doesn't. It seems as if he's too far-gone, too caught up in the baby to see you.

And you're slowly losing your patience.

"How about you take them for me?" the bite in your tone surprises even you.

You watch the smile on his face fade to confusion, his head tilting to the side. "What?"

"I said, how about you take them for me?" You can't stop the acid that drips from your words or the fire that burns your throat. You feel like a hormonal fifteen-year-old girl who just learned her favorite band was breaking up with all the petulance and derision in your voice, but you can't stop. "You take the cravings, the constant peeing, and the heartburn since this pregnancy is all you seem care about any more."

"Olivia…"

"Elliot."

"What's wrong?"

A surge of anger propels you forward. You grab your plate from the table and move to dump it in the sink. It hits the stainless steel with a clang and then you make your way into the living room. Maybe your mother had been right. Maybe getting married at twenty-two was too young.

You hear the scratching of metal against wood, followed by the sound of footsteps. Elliot sits down on the couch next to you, but you refuse to look his way.

"Baby, I'm not a mind reader. If something's wrong, please tell me…"

Internally, you scream. If something's wrong? Your emotions aren't rocket science, yet somehow he couldn't figure it out, still?

"I'm fine." you hiss your go to excuse for all things that ailed you.

"You're not fine. What's wrong?"

You sigh, tilting your head upwards and taking in a deep breath. "I'm..." Scared, terrified; please tell me it's going to be okay. Please tell me I can do this. "I'm just overwhelmed right now, El. It's a lot to take in and you're so happy…" It's suffocating me.

"Am I not supposed to be happy?" he asks you and you can hear the genuine confusion in his voice. Your anger suddenly feels irrational as he stares at you with those bright blue eyes, the dubiety in his eyes. Maybe it's you who needs to stop expecting him to be able to read your mind. Maybe you just need to tell him. He's one of the only people who wouldn't think you weak.

You swallow hard, gearing up to let your emotions bare. "No, I'm just, this whole thing came out of left field and -"

Just as you prepare to find a way to put your jumbled up feelings into words, Elliot cuts you off.

"Why are you acting like this is the worst thing in the world to happen? We always wanted children, now we're just gonna have them earlier than planned, that's all."

You could kill him. You really could.

You growl in frustration, getting to your feet, you begin to pace back and forth. The anger is back and palpable; you're not so sure if it's irrational any more, either. The cavalier tone of his voice pisses you off to no end. Of course it's easy for him to just change timetables, to suggest you put your professional goals and dreams on hold. It isn't his body that will stretch and change; it isn't Elliot who will be expected to drop their life, to become the sole support of another without second thought when they're not ready.

"Of course it's easy for you to say that. It's not you who'll have to rearrange their life at a drop of a dime."

"Now you know that's not true, Liv. Once you leave the force, I'll -"

Leave the force. What? It's more apparent now more than ever that you two clearly have two very different ideas on what this pregnancy means for you, especially regarding your career. It was one thing to go on maternity leave, it is an entirely other to leave the force all together.

"Excuse me, what?"

"Not permanently, but for now, it wouldn't make sense to be out there, on the beat pregnant. Even less when with a kid at home. Hell, I don't even want you to go tonight."

You explode, something between a scream and a shout tearing from your voice.

It's just all too much.

"Jesus Christ, Elliot! Are you really telling me that I've gotta give up everything I worked for the last few years to sit around the house, barefoot and pregnant, waiting for my doting husband to come home?"

"Don't twist my words like that, you know what I'm trying to say and it's not that!"

"Then just what the hell is it?"

"This isn't some strike against women's lib, Liv. I just want to make sure our kid's taken care of! It wouldn't make sense for me to put my job on hold to stay home; I'm a detective, you're a beat cop-"

"Oh for fuck's sake! Now I'm just a beat cop? My mother got a damn PhD and taught college classes while raising me alone! I think I could handle a baby and a badge."

"Great example there. Your father was a rapist and your mother was a falling down drunk. If she wasn't kicking the shit out of you, she was pretending you didn't exist."

You visibly recoil, your stomach dropping as Elliot inadvertently reminds you of one of the biggest reason why you're not ready to be a mother instead of causing you to consider stay-at-home mothering, your childhood demons and your own relationship with your mother.

"Go to hell, you self righteous sonofabitch." You yell as the anger in you quickly turns to sadness. These hormones and mood swings were getting harder and harder to deal with. According to your doctor, too, this is only the beginning.

Elliot works a hand over his face in frustration and perhaps regret. "Liv, I didn't…"

"Look, you don't get to tell me what to do with my body, Elliot. No matter how many rings you put on my finger."

"That's not what I'm doing. That's not what I'm trying to do. I'm-"

"I don't even want to be pregnant in the first place and you just keep making it worse." you wipe at your eyes, and run a hand through your hair in an attempt to calm down, to re-center yourself. Once you're certain no more tears are going to fall, you tear out of the living room and head for your bedroom to put on your uniform. Your shift starts in about thirty minutes and, intermittent nausea aside, it couldn't start soon enough.

/

Moments later you emerge from the bedroom, uniform snug against your body. You glance in Elliot's direction and he looks as if he wants to talk to you, but right now you couldn't care less. You're not up for another round of lost in translation.

You grab your purse and a bottle of water from the refrigerator and blow past him.

"Where are you going?" Elliot asks

As if the blue uniform isn't a dead giveaway.

With a roll of your eyes, you turn around; grab your keys off the bar that separates your kitchen from the living room, and storm your way to the front door.

"To work before you decide to chain me to our apartment."

"Olivia."

You slam the front door behind you as hard as you can.