AN:Thank you to the people who left reviews for chapter nine. I got some guesses here and on twitter re: Liv's mystery man. So far I've gotten Stabler, Barba, and Tucker. I can't reveal mystery man just yet but let me know who you think it is. I also want to mention that, while I'm sticking to the general timeline of the show, I will be rearranging certain scenes to better fit my story.

And I think only those with accounts know this but fanfiction's reader stats have been down for over a week, so I was a little dismayed to see such a sudden drop in readers. But now that I know it's a glitch, I'm relieved... but still annoyed that this site still hasn't fixed it. And even though I can't see the numbers, I hope you've all stuck around... Please tell me you're still here :(

Anyway, chapter title and {lyrics} are from Keira Knightley or Adam Levine's Lost Stars from the film Begin Again. I'll let you decide on which version because I LOVE both, and you should seriously listen to both. Please read, enjoy, and REVIEW!

Ruined Beyond Redemption

10. Lost Stars

{best laid plans
sometimes are just a one night stand}

The phone call lasts longer than intended. You're calling to confirm plans for Maria and Zara to come up to the city next weekend; you're driving up to the mountains to hit the slopes (and fall on your asses). But making plans turns into catching up, and catching up turns into pining for the old days. Although it's unsettling to admit, you keep thinking it's all this magnified nostalgia that's keeping your long-distance marriage alive. So, you play along. You walk hand-in-hand down memory lane as you reminisce the good times – the cozy winter evenings keeping each other warm under the covers, the lazy Sunday mornings stirring from the cries of your baby girl.

Those fond memories make you more hopeful these two diverged tunnels can meet together with just a little more effort and communication. Those memories won't just be faded photographs pressed into an album tucked away on a dusty shelf. You want to believe you and Maria are going to get it all back. But, honestly, your confidence is shaky at best. There's a bleak awareness of how this relationship feels like it's standing on the fragile legs of the past. And sooner or later, the considerable weight of the present is going to cause its collapse.

You release a heavy sigh from deep in your lungs, your warm breath rising into the early February air. Hope springs eternal for dreamers like you who still believe in promises of for-better-or-for-worse and 'til-death-do-us-part.

Neither you nor Maria want to be the first to put the phone down, and it feels like middle school all over again. But this time, it's less giddy nervousness; it's got more to do with the fear this spark is only a fluke. That, maybe tomorrow you two will go back to arguing over the little things when you should be discussing the big things – like firing your divorce lawyers and making decisions on where best to raise your child. For a dreamer, you sure are a pessimist.

As you reach the lobby of Liv's apartment and shake off the chill in the air, Maria tells you your daughter wants to say good night. She puts Zara on the phone and you hear the familiar lilt when she greets you, "Daddy!"

Zara knows she's pressed for time so she breezes through an update of her life, her friends (both real and on television), and how she's confident she doesn't need to practice on the bunny hill before riding up to the top of the mountain with you. She squeezes quite a bit of information into a five-minute chat, but it's not long before you figure her out and realize she's gabbing just so she won't have to get into bed. You wish her sweet dreams and wrap it up with a silly kissing noise (upon her request). Liv looks up from where she's standing and giggles quietly, and you respond with a scowl.

"Nick, she's begging for a story," Maria says, and you both know that's your cue to say good night even when you've wrestled ending this conversation since you called an hour ago. "You know I can't say no when she's giving me those puppy dog eyes."

"She gets them from me," you inform her smugly, and you can just imagine her ensuing eyeroll.

"Good night, Nick," she says, and as her voice becomes softer, she adds, "We'll talk again tomorrow."

"Night, Maria."

{cupid's demanding back it's arrow
so let's get drunk on our tears}

"It's not up for negotiation." Your hand grips tighter around the metal bar. The top bunk rattles as you force yourself to listen to her faulty logic and poor defense. "I don't see why we have to change our plans just because my son will be there."

"My problem is that you never even asked me if I was ok with him coming along to our weekend," Maria argues over the phone, a noticeable edge in the tone of her voice. "Now, you've promised him, and I'm going to look like the bitch who says no because I was under the impression this was going to be quality time for our family."

"Are you hearing yourself right now?" you ask rhetorically. "Gil is family. He's my son and Zara's brother. They don't spend enough time with each other to begin with, so anytime they're in the same city I'm going to make it work. The kids wanna hang out, and isn't what they want what's most important?"

"Oh, so why don't you just invite Cynthia to sleep in our bed, too?"

You scoff like you've just been punched in the gut. It's no secret that Maria hates the fact that you fathered a child with another woman ten years ago. But once the initial shock wore off, she tried to be accepting of Gil. In the rare times they've been in the same room together, Maria had been kind and polite in a fairly formal and contrived way. She doesn't treat him as her own, and you don't expect her to. Gil is fine with you and Cynthia as his parents; he doesn't need the added confusion of having an unofficial stepmom in Maria.

But the least your wife can do is be more understanding and accommodating when it comes to helping you fulfill your commitments as a father. If she wants this marriage to work like she claims, then she's going to have to get on board with this whole blended family situation.

"No, Cynthia won't be there," you tell her. "God, I don't know why you feel so threatened –"

"—Go to hell, Nick," she snaps, and you can feel the argument shift to a point where it's too late for apologies. "I'm not threatened by some spineless woman who lets her ex-con boyfriend use her son to sell drugs. I'm sorry if I can't get along with your baby mama, Nick; but I'm not going to be fake and pretend to be friends with a woman whose proudest accomplishment is getting her GED at 22. Frankly, you insinuating that I'm jealous of her is insulting."

"And calling her spineless or suggesting she's stupid isn't insulting?" you bark back. It's one thing to say she doesn't feel threatened, but it's another story when Maria vilifies Cynthia for circumstances she could hardly control. Sure, she could've made better choices, but she didn't have a lot of options when she grew up in a drug den and she was single-handedly raised by an older brother who was a ruthless and psychotic monster. "You have no idea what she's been through."

"Great," Maria replies, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Then she can tell me and Dr. Phil all about her sad, pathetic life when she drops off her son next Saturday…. Or on second thought, maybe we should reschedule this little family pow-wow since Zara and I won't be going on this trip after all."

"Maria, you can't do that –"

"—Enjoy your weekend with your other family."

"Maria!" The call is clipped and all you're left with is dead air. You squeeze your phone in your hands and feel a sudden urge to throw it against the cinderblock walls. "Fuck!"

"I, uh, I can come back later," says a voice a few feet from where you're standing. Turning around, you see Amanda at the doorway with a folder in her hands and a flustered expression on her face. Amidst the rosy, embarrassed cheeks, there's concern in her eyes; but you don't have much time to stare back before she's spinning on her heels.

"Wait," you call out. "What do you need?"

Tentatively, she takes a step into the break room and hands you the folder. "Here's the transcript of your interview with Lisa Moore. Sarge left early so you'll need to sign it before we can send it upstairs." She hands you a pen and you skim over the pages, not really paying attention to whether or not the minutes are accurate.

"You ok?" she asks, chewing her lip nervously.

Nodding your head once, you sign over the dotted lines and, when you're finished, you close the folder and hand it back to her.

"Amaro," she says when she reaches the door. "Don't take this the wrong way, but… you look like shit and you look like you could use a drink." A small smile turns up at the corner of your mouth, and you momentarily forget why you look and feel like shit in the first place. Amanda lowers her head and returns the smile. "And you're in luck, because I'm feeling generous tonight so first round's on me. You up for it?"

{and god, tell us the reason
youth is wasted on the young
it's hunting season
and the lambs are on the run}

Amanda takes you to a place that's seedier than the squad's usual haunt. The dim yellow light makes everyone look jaundiced, but you don't stare for too long because the patrons look like they've stepped right out of the set of Sons of Anarchy. Thankfully, tonight's not the night she's decided to take you to a hick bar with crooning country music and wasted white girls precariously hanging off a mechanical bull. She promises to take you (and the squad) there eventually, but tonight it's all about convenience and proximity.

There are no cops around, which is strange considering it's a walk away from the 16th precinct; but it seems like a strategic choice on her part. As you sit on the bar, she knocks on the counter and tilts her head up to the bartender. He acknowledges her with both brevity and familiarity before mixing a glass of Jack and Coke, which she graciously accepts.

"What's your friend here having?"

"He's not my friend," Amanda blurts out, her widened eyes warning the bartender. "We just work together."

"Right," you add, and you can see he's not convinced by your compliance. He almost looks sorry for you. "I'll take a whiskey neat. Thanks."

Between your first sip and the bottom of your glass, Amanda doesn't ask about the phone call or the wife even though that had been the origin of this unlikely invitation. It's as if she can read your unwillingness to go into details. You share a drink without really talking apart from concise updates about the open case of the missing boy, Nicky Moore. And as the shoptalk slowly fades into sporadic chats about the weather and the new bagel joint down the street, it allows you to quietly observe her reflection across the bar. There's a brooding stillness about her – the kind seen in the faces of those who are wise because they've lived through hell. But you don't ask because you can read the cover of her book, and you know better than to try to turn past the first page.

Amanda promises you one drink and she keeps her word; that's all she has time for. Her phone rings and she glances at the caller ID but she doesn't answer. Her hand presses up on your knee as she hops down the stool. "I have to go."

"Dog emergency?" you ask, feeding the first part of the lie she's about to tell you.

She chuckles softly, but she doesn't sweeten the dishonesty with a fake tale of Frannie getting her paws on a Kit Kat bar. No, not this time. You know she's been lying and she's not even going to try to deny it. She's fine with it, because what harm is one pixel of truth going to do when you aren't privy to the whole picture?

{searching for meaning
but are we all lost stars
trying to light up the dark}

"You don't know what it's like to lose one."

Alexa Pearson took a potshot at Liv's personal life and, immediately, you picked up on her sad eyes and slight frown. It didn't take someone well acquainted with her secrets to figure out that had hurt. But knowing about her recently disclosed yearning to have a family just made it so much more difficult to stand there and allow your suspect to dismiss Liv's empathy just because she didn't have a child of her own. Still, apart from the micro-reaction, your sergeant didn't let the suspect's words affect the rest of the interrogation. At least, until Liv slammed the door to her office.

You knock on her door under the pretense that you have some new information regarding the case. When she realizes you're not here for that, she sighs, sets her glasses down on the desk, and props her head on her hands.

"What Pearson said – that wasn't right," you start. "Your personal choices shouldn't be used against you just because a really shit example for a mother happens to think a woman without kids can't speak on the matter."

"I don't really care." Liv lies through her teeth, and she sounds defeated more than indifferent. "Besides, it doesn't even matter… she's right. I don't know what it's like and I'll probably never know…."

"I saw the look on your face and it just made me think of the other night, when –"

She warns you with a stern look. "I told you those things in the privacy of my apartment as friends. And I trusted you not to bring it up at work."

"I'm sorry… Look, all I'm saying is don't let what she said hold you back from what you want."

Her frown relaxes slightly but her eyes remain austere. She hears what you're saying but she's not giving you any credit for extinguishing her doubts. And you can live without the pat on the shoulder, as long as she understands you're only bringing this up because you care about her.

As you rise from the chair, you drop the friend thing (for now) and switch over to one of her detectives. "We should head out to the Cross Island Motor Lodge and check the room for Nicky."

But Liv shakes her head. "Rollins and I will partner up for this one. You and Fin go over the security footage," and that's when you start drawing the parallels between Liv and Amanda. They'll leave you these morsels of truth to keep you feeling like you're part of something, like you're not left behind in the darkness. When really, they can blow the flame out whenever they want.

{woe is me
if we're not careful
turns into reality}

You're back in Amanda's bar because you've been in the groove of doing things against your better judgment, so why stop now?

This time, you promise to get the first round and she puts up no arguments. With the case behind you and Nicky back in the custody of his overworked parents, it seems like an improper yet convenient time to celebrate. She leads the way around the block from the precinct, three steps ahead of you at all times. Another strategic maneuver so no one gets any wrong ideas about the two of you. She rants about how a few passengers on the plane were pissed off their flight was delayed because the NYPD was searching for a missing boy who had run out of insulin. Once you arrive, she sheds her coat, sits next to you, and orders two whiskeys. You clink your glasses to another closed case and hope for the best for all the children involved.

"God help them," she says, wincing at the first burn of alcohol.

Two drinks in, the conversation shifts to NYPD bureaucracy and how the new administration is on constant alert, sending lapdogs like Hank Abraham to scrutinize every single fucking detail of your investigations. You can barely do your jobs as police officers when some clown, who prioritizes image above all else, is policing your work.

"Deputy Chief Commissioner for Public Information," Amanda sneers, reading the title on the calling card. "Just another bullshit job that's ten levels up my pay grade," she mutters, setting the card down on the counter and reusing it as a coaster for her drink. "What does he even do?"

"Cover the department's ass by calling screw-ups 'outliers' and 'isolated incidents'," you answer, and Amanda cocks her head to the side and arches her brows. "You know… so the NYPD doesn't actually have to take responsibility for anything."

"Yeah, I get it…" she trails off, her finger tracing the perimeter of the glass. "When did you get so jaded about the job?"

"It's not the job per se; it's all the other BS that comes with it." She nods her head in agreement. Lifting your drink to your lips, you pour it down to the last drop. "Another round?"

Four drinks in, Hank Abraham and the NYPD are on the back burner. Amanda's asking about your Narcotics days and what it was like working undercover. She's had a few short stints working UC (usually as a party girl or a high-class escort), but nothing that lasted over 24 hours. Apparently, going deep undercover has always been something she wanted to try out, but the opportunity just never arose. When she asks, you tell her you get a rush playing a character so different from your real self. There's a sense of adventure to it. The constant state of anxious anticipation makes you feel so alive.

But life in the fast lane wasn't all it was cracked up to be. There were crimes you witnessed that you couldn't do a thing about because it would've gone against your orders. Narcotics was trying to build solid cases against these drug traffickers so they could be placed behind bars without chance of parole. You couldn't risk ruining yearlong investigations by testing your hero complex on naïve street corner pawn and domestic abuse victims who had turned to pipes and needles for some reprieve. All you could do was turn your head and pretend nothing was wrong. And when the adrenaline ran dry from finally catching those bad guys, it was those faces you overlooked that haunted you in those quiet moments between wakefulness and sleep.

Five drinks in, Amanda is facing you, her crossed legs pressed against your thigh. She's talking about her time working for the APD and how it's always been a boys' club. The alcohol is making her open up a little more, but just like the other night, she's still biting her tongue on the specifics. She can talk about how her old squad room smelled of sweat ineffectively masked over with Old Spice. And she can tell you that it was like working in a frat house, but when you start asking questions she doesn't elaborate and she bats her lashes in an attempt to distract.

Instead of liquid courage keying her up to loosen her lips, she becomes more uninhibited with the physical contact. Her fingers brush up against yours, picking up your drink to toss it down her throat. She smiles playfully before she signals the bartender for another round. Normally, you'd stop here because you're at the threshold between closing your tab and saving yourself from a wicked hangover, and stumbling out of the bar and passing out on the nearest available surface.

Amanda gets what she wants. She lifts the whiskey to your mouth and laughs as some of it dribbles down you chin. Taking the glass from her hands, you set it safely back down on the counter and lick your lips. Her thumb wipes off the beads of dark liquor on your skin, her stare piercing yours. It's hard to tell with the dim yellow light, but you swear to the high heavens that her eyes darken into a deeper shade of blue.

And heaven isn't too happy with where this is going.

You shouldn't even be thinking about the kiss, but it's all you can see, feel, and taste in your fogged up brain. It's your favorite memory of the girl next to you; and that's why it doesn't seem to be enough for it to happen just once, for it to end there. Yeah, it's your fault it ended so abruptly so you probably deserve this provocation. And you know it's against your better judgment to want the kiss to happen again, but God help you.

Mentally, you smack yourself a few times. You need to focus on your wife even though she hasn't been returning any of your phone calls. You need to control yourself and not be so fucking transparent with your desire. Breaking away from her eyes, you sigh and cover your face with your hands. Spending time after-hours with Amanda makes things messier and more complicated; and damn it, you know that. But you're still here, close enough to breathe in the flowers in her hair and the tobacco on her lips.

Amanda's gaze fixes on your hand, her bottom lip pouting slightly. "One day at a time still working out for you?"

"Huh?"

"When I asked about you and Maria, you said 'one day at a time'." She props her elbow up on the bar and rests her cheek on her hand. You study her face to see if she feels any sort of way about your attempt to save your marriage. It's been hard reading her lately with the walls she's built up and her habit of running away just as you feel like you're getting close.

"Honestly," you start to say, and this is the part when you should be shutting your mouth and keeping up the illusion that everything's fine, everything's perfect. But your truth slips out before you can recover. "One day it's like we're taking a step forward, and the next it's two steps back."

She chews on her lip, her gaze drifting from your eyes down to your mouth. All you can do is divert your attention somewhere other than Amanda, before you lose it and give into your impulse for another taste. Maybe it's just the alcohol giving you courage where courage has no business being. Or maybe it's all this confusion. Whatever it is – you're well aware of what it's doing to you, but you just can't get a handle on it because, here you are, still acting stupid.

Just when you think you have it figured out and your prayers are answered, someone comes along to make you realize you have no fucking clue what you're doing.

{maybe we'll find a brand new ending
where we're dancing in our tears}

Liv arrives home (back at her apartment) with a bag of microwave popcorn, two bottles of wine, and a somber expression that promises a night of sulking. The way this week ends just like it started is a cool full circle moment. Liv asking you to make yourself useful and go buy popcorn from the bodega down the street. You, taking your sweet time because you're on the phone with Maria. You, having to return back to the store on your way back because you remembered everything but the popcorn. And now, with Liv coming back from family court, she stops by the bodega to kick off another week with your unofficial tradition.

The second the microwave dings, the scent of butter perfumes the air. Liv settles on the couch beside you as you go through the list of movies on demand. With Cassidy still away on his UC assignment, you don't have his reliable swing vote and it's going to be tougher to convince your partner to watch another Die Hard movie. Halfway through the bowl of popcorn and into your first refill of pinot noir, you both agree on Groundhog Day even though you've both seen it a handful of times since its release.

Sitting back and being in each other's company feels good. Neither of you will admit out loud to feeling alone, but this is why this roommate thing works (at least until her boyfriend returns). It's nice not having to overthink. Liv's probably the only person in your life you can have a disagreement with, and not have the aftershocks linger like some cloud of dust. With her, you're not keeping track of who's putting in more work. With her, you don't feel like you have to restrain yourself from appearing too comfortable, from looking as if you want more.

Fifteen minutes into the film, it becomes background noise. It starts when you casually ask her about her visit to family court. She went down to check on the cases of the children who were previously in the Pearsons' custody. She admits she felt appalled that no one had claimed the baby they found in the drawer. You've seen the error in your ways and you know better than to push the issue of children with her - not since that conversation in her office. But she confesses she can't stop worrying about the baby's welfare.

"I've seen this before," you say, shaking your head. "It's usually a junkie leaving her kid because she knows she can't take care of him and sustain her habit at the same time. It's terrible, but it's hard to blame the mothers when the kid's most likely better off with another family.

"I know," she sighs. "Still, it's hard to imagine a mother leaving a perfectly healthy baby."

Last night, Amanda mentioned that when they found the children at the motel room, Liv spontaneously went on maternal mode. She held the baby until he stopped crying and tended to him until family services arrived. While Amanda had seen her boss interact with babies before, this was a completely new side to her. It was as if, upon seeing Baby Boy Doe, she had grown an instant connection.

Your arm wraps around her shoulder and she leans into you. "The younger they are the better their chances of finding an adoptive family. I'm sure he'll be fine."

Liv doesn't respond. She just looks straight at the TV but she's too deep in thought for it to be about Bill Murray's comedic timing. Her legs curl up on the couch as she nestles into the crook of your neck.

While you two have been through a lot as partners, nothing has brought you closer as friends as these last few weeks living together. She gets on your case about leaving laundry lying around, and you get on hers about all the wasted food in her fridge. But other than the typical roommate squabbles, you've grown more comfortable around each other. And with her late-night visits to mystery man becoming scarce, it's left you plenty of time to do 'friend things' like watching movies and eating your combined weight in popcorn (salt cleanses be damned). You and Liv still don't talk about everything, and that's fine. Sometimes, it's nice just having someone to lean on and be quiet with.

The lock clicks and you and Liv exchange a look. Before she can extract herself from your arm, Cassidy is at the doorway.

"What the fuck is he still doing here?"

He's back to talking about you like you're not even in the same room. Fair enough. You weren't supposed to be here; and to make matters worse he did just walk in to see his girlfriend cozied up next to you.

"What are you doing back?" Liv asks, getting up from the couch and knocking down the nearly empty bowl on the ground. She bends down to pick up the stray kernels just to distract herself from looking at her boyfriend's flushed face. "You weren't supposed to be back for a couple of days."

"What's he doing here?"

You push yourself off the couch. "I better go," you tell Liv and she nods her head. Walking around Cassidy and ignoring the deathly glare he's throwing at you, you walk toward the coat closet where you've stored your luggage. From the corner of your eye, you see him standing over Liv, his hands crossed over his chest.

"You still haven't answered my question."

"I asked him to stay until you got back," Liv finally explains. She sets the bowl on the coffee table before she stands up to meet him at eye level.

"What for?" he asks incredulously. "So you have someone to hold you while you're crying yourself to sleep?"

You're frozen, staring at the dark wall at the back of the closet.

"Brian," she warns. "You know it's not like that…. I just needed some company, someone to talk to…."

"And you'll talk to him?" He raises his voice. "I've been trying to get you to talk to me since last summer and all Amaro has to do is show up and leach off our groceries, and he gets the whole fucking story. And what? All I get is some vague voicemail –"

"Don't do this right now."

You pull the suitcase out of the closet and open it up, throwing all your clothes in there. Who cares about folding anything when you want to be anywhere but that apartment?

Liv's eyes narrow at Cassidy before she casts an apologetic glance in your direction. You lower your head and keep yourself busy. She grabs him by the elbow to lead him somewhere where they can have this conversation in private, but he pulls away almost like he's disgusted. You walk into the bathroom to get your razor and shaving cream, their voices sounding muffled behind the wall.

"I didn't leave that message to scare you!" she yells, and this time it's loud and clear. "Christ, I never told you to leave! I wasn't trying to jeopardize your assignment."

You step out of the bathroom and neither one of them even notice you're still there. Reaching into the washing machine, you pull out your whites that are still damp and throw it on top of the growing pile in your suitcase.

"You were panicking when you called my emergency cell. What the hell was I supposed to do? I had to tell Tucker to go fuck himself… I needed to be home for you." Cassidy leans forward until he's in her face, and he hisses, "How was I supposed to know you already had someone here?"

You push down on your clothes and try to zip up your bag with not much success.

"Nick doesn't know," she replies meekly. "Anyway… you have nothing to worry about."

You force the zipper closed and set the suitcase upright. Your hand grips the plastic handle as you wheel it across the room. You realize you're still in a t-shirt and sweats so you scramble to get your sneakers on and your coat over your shoulders, but you can't find your sleeve. Where is the fucking sleeve?

"It was a false alarm." Liv's small voice cuts through the silence like a knife. It almost feels like you're back here in the apartment on your first night, hearing the hushed bickering through the thin walls and feeling relieved that you weren't the only one having problems. But this time, you don't derive any comfort from their misfortune. It all starts to fall into place – her reaction to Alexa's underhanded comment and her recurring fear for Baby Boy Doe. You open the door, your coat hanging off one arm and your shoelaces untied, and you step out. But before you can close it behind you, you hear her tell him, "Brian, I'm not pregnant."