Author: ZombieJazz

Fandom: SVU

Disclaimer: I don't own them. Law&Order: Special Victims Unit and its characters belong to Dick Wolf. The character of Jack, Benji and Emmy have been created and developed for the sake of this AU series.

Summary: A series of stand-alone, non-chronological ONE-SHOTS set in Hello Goodbye, Welcome Home, Facing Forward, Best Laid Plans, A Step At A Time, The Night Before AU. Olivia Benson navigates the job, parenthood and marriage while trying to find the difficult work-life-family balance that comes with being a cop.

PLEASE NOTE: These chapters are stand-alone SCENES or one-shots. This is not a chronological story and there is no purposeful continuity. It is just a collection of moments. Some will reflect random ideas or potentially fun, humorous, heavy scenes to write with these characters. Others will expand on a scene from an episode (past or present) or recast the way a scene went while imaging it in this AU. Others will take a kernel from an episode and use it as inspiration for how these characters might've interacted with it going forward. Wherever possible, a year, season number or episode name will be provided to give some context of the general timeframe of the scene — to provide some guidance on where the characters are at mentally/emotionally and the ages of the children.

TIMEFRAME: January 2020

Olivia glanced up from her take-home work as a box landed on the opposite side of dining room table. She looked at it – a brand new white noise machine – and then looked up at Cassidy who was staring at her like he was just waiting for her reaction.

"Is this some sort of passive aggressive way of telling me I snore?" she put to him flatly.

It got a head tilt. That annoyed look of his. And she looked away from it back to her files and mountains of paperwork she was trying to get in order before the COMP-STAT meeting the next morning, where she was sure she'd have the powers-that-be critiquing SVU's performance and declining stat numbers while not acknowledging at all the declining resources they were giving her to run her unit in any kind of effective manner. Or at least in a way that looked good in their fucking spreadsheets and pie graphs.

"It's for the kids' room," he rasped at her.

She made a listening noise – that she made sure expressed her own annoyance. "We have one," she said and gave him a look. "It's likely in Emmy's baby box."

His eyes glared again. "This one can go in their room rather than a fucking box," he said, "that who fucking knows where it is."

Olivia just pointed downward with her pen. "Maintenance closet. Downstairs," she said flatly.

She could feel his eyes stay on her for a long beat. But then he shifted, going to the narrow desks and their hutched bookshelves that made up the craft and homework space (and storage area) for the kids against the side wall. He opened one of the drawers and started riffling it around. Olivia could tell he was likely going to leave a bigger mess in their than the kids ever did. That drawer got pushed – near slammed – shut and the next one opened.

"Where are the batteries?" he asked – no demanded.

Olivia rubbed at her eyebrow but didn't look at him. "I have no idea."

"We just fucking bought batteries at Christmas," he grumbled. "How the fuck do they go through that many batteries in a month?"

"I suspect that has to do with the remote control cars that are still taking paint chips out of my baseboards," Olivia said flatly.

She felt his eyes more to her at that. The glare set. "Those came with rechargeable battery packs," he provided with an edge.

"Ahh …" She just kept scrolling down on her screen, looking for the next box she needed to pull information from for the expected interrogation she'd be enduring in front of all the other commanding officers come morning.

"Nevermind," Brian muttered and came back to the table, picking up the box and fumbling around overly awkwardly and overly loudly to get it open. "I'll just plug it in."

And then Olivia shifted her glare to him. "You're going to go in there – now – and wake them up fumbling around to plug in a device that's only going to make more noise?" she pressed at him and then gestured at pile of work. "I have work I need to get done tonight, Brian. You wake them – you're dealing with it."

And his glare and head-tilt set on her again. "The whole fucking point of this is so that maybe they'll fucking sleep through the night," he pressed at her. "So maybe we can get some fucking shut-eye without either of them up or in our bed. So maybe we can actually have sex that isn't—"

But her eyes snapped to his at that and she almost laughed at him. "Don't even," she pressed at him abruptly and then pointed a bit at him and that look he was giving her. "Don't pretend that this has anything to do with you not getting laid for a week, Brian."

"It hasn't been a week," he said. "More like a month."

She just rolled her eyes at him with a head shake and went back to her work. She wasn't even going to engage with that. Teen-aged boy sulking – not grown man conversation or any real attempt to work toward resolving and rectifying their latest argument.

She could feel him still glaring at her. But Brian Cassidy didn't scare her. She'd dealt with far worse and far more intimidating men in much direr situations. And he knew it too. The glare eventually turned to a start and he finally let out a sound of frustrated exasperation and pulled out the chair and sat down across from her.

She gave him a glance but just reached for her glass of wine and took a sip – a long one that almost wanted to be a gulp – and kept flipping through her files.

"I don't want to fight with you," he said.

"Well, you could of fooled me," she muttered still looking at her paperwork. "It sure feels like you stormed in here looking for one. And I really don't have the time or energy for that tonight."

He audibly sighed at her. But then he just sat there. And Olivia just kept on picking away at getting her prep done.

"When's the last time you think you actually got to sleep through the night?" he finally asked.

Olivia just let out an exhale and shrugged. "I have no idea," she muttered without giving it any real thought. She'd hazard a guess that it was about seven years ago – or maybe more like 22-plus.

"Babe," Brian tried. "I function better on less sleep than you." She allowed an amused noise at that. She wouldn't entirely accept that as fact either. It was more Brian had worked undercover for longer than she'd ever had to and had had to be in all-night situations that involved drugs, alcohol and working girls while he was 'working' too. And she could tell he'd read all that into her noise and it hung there for a moment while he looked at her. "And, Liv, I'm at the point I really just fucking want a night's sleep. In my own fucking bed. With my wife."

She pressed at her keyboard. "I think we both know you and orgasm doesn't equate sleep," she said and gestured absently upstairs and in the general direction of the bathroom. "But since you're so hard done by, do what you need to do. Certainly wouldn't be the first time."

"And like you never self-serve," he pressed right back before she'd even fully gotten the words out of her mouth. "Actually, you know, I think I do know where I can find some batteries."

And she looked up and locked eyes with him. And he just stared right back. And they both held that way until he was the one who blinked and looked a way, shaking his head in an attempt to mask it. But Olivia could see his one fist clutching in frustration on the table and his other hand squeezing at his elbow.

"See," he muttered and then looked right at her. "This is why I don't want to fight with you. Because you always have to fucking win, Liv. You just always have to be right. And I've fucking let you win … all the fucking time … because I spent years of my life being so fucking afraid if I didn't I'd lose you and the kids."

Olivia exhaled a bit and rubbed at her eyebrow – staring at the table more than the computer screen. "Bri," she said evenly. "I don't want to do this tonight. I'm tired. You're tired."

"We're tired," he agreed firmly – looking her right in the eye and gestured at the white noise machine. "And I present a fucking possible solution and you're acting like it's about the worst idea ever."

Olivia gestured right at the machine. "That's not what this is about," she said and then gestured between them. "And neither is this."

They just looked at each other. In those long moments, Olivia couldn't tell if they were about to talk or if he was about to stand up and leave. But then Brian shook his head until it hung and he stared at the table with his mouth hanging open like he was trying to get words out but couldn't quite find them.

He finally sighed and looked at her. "Three suicides, Liv," he said. "In less than a year."

"And you think that I'm not acutely aware that that's something you're dealing with?" she put to him more gently. "That it makes me worry about you – and your mental health. But – you don't talk to me, Brian."

He shook his head again and looked at the table with that gapping gesture again. "What the hell am I supposed to say, Liv?" he sputtered a bit. "That with Chelton and Lopez … I feel like I should've seen the signs. Lopez couldn't wait to get out of there. I should've helped him transfer sooner. I should've seen that the fucking work – the cases, the kids – were getting to him. Chelton … that guy. All the fucking red flags were there."

"Hindsight can be twenty-twenty, Brian," she offered. "We … all miss things. We're doing our jobs. Answering to our powers that be. Doing our own juggling acts. I miss things."

He gazed at her. "And what about Gordie's wife? I should've fucking seen that that family was drowning. I should've thrown Gordie some kind of fucking life preserver, gotten his family some kind of help."

"Brian, that's not all on you. None of it is. Any of them. And, it was Gordon's family. His wife. He knows what access points we have. The hospital must've been giving them to them too. This was … you can't know what's going on behind closed doors of your staff."

"I fucking should," he pressed. "A fucking lifetime as a cop – as a fucking detective, Olivia – and, what? I just let this happen. Three fucking lives. Three families. Kids. Just fucked. And what the fuck am I supposed to do with Gordie? He's not going to stay. He can't stay on. Not with little kids at home and figuring out how to be a single dad and getting them through this. With the kind of fucking cases we deal with? The shit we look at? But me – as a boss – my whole fucking team. Black listed. No one wants in. They're going to have to fucking dismantle the unit and reorganize it, rebrand it or some shit. Axe me? I don't fucking know. But I know I can't go into work and be dealing with … all that … and then come home and be the fucking Bad Guy, the fucking asshole to our kids."

"And I can?" Olivia put to him firmly.

He sighed and examined the table. Olivia stared at him and at nothing too.

"Maybe it's better if the Investigator's Office does a reorganization," she provided. "I worry about you – the cases – too."

He looked at her. "But you tackling SVU cases – the vics – for two decades … that's just fine?"

She exhaled. "It is and it isn't. I've had to learn how to … not get as close to the case, to bond with the victim …"

"You've done real good at that," Brian lay-out with the sarcasm seeping from him.

Olivia gazed at him. "I like to think since being in command – understanding more that being close to the victim doesn't mean the same as helping the victim or the case."

Brian shrugged. "Fine. But not comparable. My job is to recreate how the crime occurred, if the crime occurred. To objectively look at the evidence in the investigation that came to that conclusion. It's understanding if there's enough to go trail and get a conviction without some dirty little secret or perjury blowing up and derailing everything. The cases – the victims: Inconsequential to me."

Olivia frowned at him. "I really hope you aren't working at lying to yourself as much as you just looked me in the eye and told that giant, glaring fib, Brian."

She only got another shrug. And she shook her head at him. "Fine, I think you need help. That you need to be talking to someone about this. But tell yourself what you need to to get by right now. If that's what you really need to believe to deal with the mental health crisis going on on this task force of yours, Brian, then …" she shook her head and stared at him but then she looked away because she thought she would get emotional and he'd see it. Instantly. He likely already had. But there were times she just wished he would understand – accept – how much she worried about him and his coping … with all of this. His life and LIFE.

Brian clearly needed someone to talk to too and she didn't think the Investigator's Office was providing that in a real way. It made her want to get on the phone with their union and ask what the hell was going on – because she worried enough about Brian coping with the skeletons in his closet. He didn't need to be taking on responsibility for other people's … choices made in desperation when they couldn't get the help they needed or live the lives with their family they'd hoped.

Olivia felt like those realities were coming to a head in their family too and this talk was making her feel like Brian was ill-equipped to handle that. And like she was entirely ill-equipped to help him. Because he wouldn't let her in there yet.

"I do know, I honestly feel, I've done better since becoming a mother – since knowing my head needs to be at home when I'm home. And, Bri, when I come home, more days than not, I just want to hug the kids too. And I am … sick of … always having to be the disciplinarian lately."

"He almost died," Brian pressed at her bluntly.

It stung more. She felt it in her chest and behind her eyes. And she rubbed at her eyebrow again to try to keep herself in check.

"He didn't," she countered. He hadn't.

"Focal seizures, nervous system talk, brain inflammation talk, fucking blood plasma transfers," he pressed again with the edge to his voice.

"Yes, and now there is little sign of disease activity," she said. "Benji's technically in remission, Brian."

"Yea, until it isn't. And only as long as we're shoving fucking immuno-modulators down his throat every day for the rest of his life."

"And how different is that from parents who have children on an asthma inhaler or juvenile diabetes and insulin pumps or fucking ADD shoving Ritalin down their throats, Brian? Lots of kids are on some kind of medication."

"Not like this," he said. "It's not normal."

"It is our new normal, Brian," she pressed at him hard. "And just like any normal kid, Benji can be a moody, clingy, stubborn, defiant eleven-year-old boy, who quite frankly has days where he is a bit of an asshole." It earned the smallest smile of recognition out of Brian. "And I don't like being the one who always has to draw that to his attention and set him straight."

"A lot of that is the drugs," Brian said. "Or the fucking disease. I'm not going to punish him because he has lupus."

"You are not punishing him because he has lupus, Brian," she raised her voice. "Just like he isn't allowed to treat us like shit because he's not feeling well on any particular day. He needs to learn how to recognize and manages symptoms of the disease and side effects of the medication."

"And, yet," Brian pushed at her, "last night I try to do the parenting and you jump down my fucking throat – in front of the kids."

Olivia almost growled out some of her frustration and near slapped her laptop shut so it wasn't blocking any of her physical body language from him now. Or her ability to lunge across the table and grab him by the throat.

"I have already acknowledged that I shouldn't have said that in front of the kids – but you had just countered my parenting too, Brian. I'd already set the guidelines and made the negotiation with him to get through the night – and then when I tell him to get off his ass and do it, you swoop in and take over."

He glared at her. "He had a game tonight. His knees were already bruised and buggin' him. You shouldn't have had him crawling around the floor."

"He had Lego from here," she jabbed a finger at the glass door to their small garden behind her, "all the way to the front door!"

"It was a marble run," Brian said. "He's testing out ideas for his science project."

Olivia glared. "Yes, Bri. I know exactly what he was doing – because I'm the one who's been pulling teeth out of him to get him to do any of his homework lately. But it was seven o'clock at night. It was time to clean-up. It's not like I had him on the floor with a bucket and sponge."

"And fucking telling me off about taking out the trash?" he pressed.

"It's his chore," she spat exasperatedly. "When's the last time you did one of Emmy's chores? At dinner you'd made a point of making sure she knew it was turn to clear the table and you sure weren't up on your feet to even help her. But an hour later you're happy to schlep around the house emptying our trash cans for Benji?"

"To get them upstairs and into bedtime routine faster," Brian said.

"And, you know – you knew, you sat there at dinner and listened to the fucking negotiation with him – he was willing to give up story-time but wanted screen-time with that show. I was willing to accommodate that to get through the rest of the evening without a fight about homework and screen-time."

"OK, one – I didn't hear that conversation," Brian said.

"You were sitting right there," Olivia gestured madly at him.

"I don't remember anyone talking about that," he shrugged.

Olivia shook her head and gazed over at the wall seething. "Then so glad you could join us for the last ten minutes of our family meal, Bri," she muttered. "At least we got you here in body, even if your head was still off …" and she gestured dismissively before turning back to him.

His eyes stuck on her. They glared again for a long moment.

"Two," he said. "It was a fucking Stephen King mini-series. How the fuck is that appropriate for an eleven-year-old that we're trying to get over his fucking nightmares that result in him sleeping in our bedroom like four night a week?"

Olivia looked at him and started her own numbered list. "One," she raised an eyebrow at him. "It's not Stephen King. It's based on a graphic novel by his son. Two," and she raised that eyebrow a bit further and did a head tilt to drive the point home. "I'm willing to entertain at least the notion of most things that ignite any kind of interest in working on his reading and his drawing, Brian. Three. It was Jack and Renee who mentioned this series to him and showed him the comic. It is the first thing in months – MONTHS – that he's taken any interest in that his uncle has mentioned. So I am not going to arbitrarily shutdown a possible stepping stone in re-establishing some kind of dynamic between the two of them. Or between Benji and a woman who seems like she's going to end up being a pretty important part of Jack's life. And, four, Brian, I was going to watch it with him. And, you know I would've turned it off if it was remotely inappropriate. And, if it was just some YA creepy fantasy show, Bri, it would've been really nice to have a new carrot for dealing with Benji and for me to have some show and some time with my son that doesn't revolve around prodding him about homework, chores and taking his medication."

"We should've talked about it before you went promising him he could watch it," Brian said.

Olivia tilted her head. "Really? We need to have a discussion about every little media consumption our kids are delving into now? OK, Brian. I'll keep that in mind the next time some new super hero movie or Transformers show or Ninja Turtles video game releases."

Brian just made a sound that didn't sound like it was anywhere near being in agreement with her.

Olivia let out her own sound of frustration – if not boiling over into anger again.

"See," she pressed, tapping her clenched fist lightly on the tabletop and it was a hammer she could use to get through her husband's thick skull. "This is part of the reason it makes me so mad, Bri, that you won't come to the chronic illness parenting workshop at the hospital."

That turned into frustrated annoyance emitting from somewhere in Brian's throat too. Olivia just locked eyes with him.

"Benji is not some broken, infantile, fragile, sick person, Brian," she put to him firmly. "You need someone besides me saying that to you. Because I sure as hell don't seem to be presenting you with a convincing argument. You need to hear someone else tell you that Benji is still Benji. He is not 'lupus'. We are not a 'lupus family'."

"Really?" Brian looked at her. "Because it sure has felt like we've spent a year being a lupus family."

"We've spent a year dealing with a diagnosis, Brian," she raised her voice. "And that's all it is. It's just a fucking diagnosis. It can't be our family's or his or our defining characteristic. And if you'd just come to these sessions, you'd hear that part of parenting a sick child is stopping and asking yourself how you'd treat them, how you'd parent them, if they weren't sick. If he didn't have this label. What your expectations would be? What would their discipline and repercussions would be? What you'd let them do and not do?"

"And apparently what we'd let them do is watch a show meant for teenagers when he's still pissing his bed, afraid of the dark and cowers in cramped spaces."

"The only thing on that list that might have to do with lupus is the bed-wetting – and that's a whole lot more to do with the medication then the disease," Olivia glared at him. "And you know that. Just like you know that he's surrounded by kids who are watching Stranger Things and Walking Dead and Game of Thrones and Riverdale and … surfing the internet to find free porn, Brian. I'm sure you've gone and looked up this show by now – same as me – and Locke and Key is a pretty tame comparison to any of that."

They sat there. Just staring. Not talking, until Olivia finally exhaled.

"I wish you'd come and hear their suggestions on finding and measuring our 'new normal' – and boundaries and routines. You just keep living in this 'we're not normal' now."

"We aren't," he shrugged.

"We never were, Brian. Our family make-up, the backgrounds the kids came from, things we've dealt with as a family. It's not 'normal'. But, right now, that's not the problem. The problem is that we are no where near on the same page when it comes to parenting our children."

"So we have a disagreement about chores and screen-time one night and now we aren't on the same page," Brian muttered at her.

"You know it's not just last night, Bri," she exhaled. "It's been a while. We've had lots of bumps since his diagnosis. And, last month … it shook you, Brian. I can tell. It shook me too. But you are treating him … like …"

She just shook her head and stared at the wall for a long beat before finding his eyes again.

"You wanting to always be the super hero and swooping in and saving him from everything – whether he needs it or not - that's hurting us. It's hurting Benji and it's hurting Emmy too, Bri. Benji can't get away with everything with the fucking 'lupus' excuse and then we crack down on our six-year-old? Our first grader? How is that even equating as anything but nonsensical to you?"

"Someone has to watch the kids," he said. "Can't both be going to these workshop things."

Olivia just stared at him. She had to consciously keep herself from wide-eyed, wide-mouthed gaping at him.

"That's what you got out of that?" she said in disbelief. Talk about nonsensical. "Do I even need to respond to that?" She started holding up her fingers. "Your mom, Cragen, Jack, Eileen, Renee. Munch is fucking living downstairs, Brian."

"Living being the operative word there …" he muttered.

And she looked him directly in the eyes and leaned forward a bit. "And that is something we should be talking about too, Brian. But we aren't."

He shrugged. "What's there to talk about?"

"Really?" she stared at him. "OK, Brian. You know what? I know my loss is going to be different than yours. But, when …" she shook her head and looked at the wall again for a long moment. "I'm grieving too. Already. And I'm bracing myself. I'm trying to find acceptance. And I can't – this family can't – have you losing yourself when the enviable happens. I know it's going to hurt – but you can't disappear into one of your rabbit holes. So maybe this is something we really should be starting to work through together – now."

He shrugged. "People die. Cancer kills them."

Brian said it so flatly and near icily that Olivia felt her eyes glass with it and she stared at the table.

"I don't know what it is with us and January and February, Bri," she whispered and gave her head a little shake while she still tried to compose herself.

"I don't hold exclusive ownership on the shit-factor of those two months," he muttered.

She looked up to gaze at him. "I wasn't implying you did."

Another small shrug, his arms crossing a bit. "So maybe it's you who wants to do the talking. Woo is the mother and wife stuck is a sick child, a molested husband and a miscarriage all in the dark days of winter."

"Poetic," she put flatly – staring at him. "Is that what you want to talk about?"

"All I want to talk about is how to not fight," he said.

"Ahh …," Olivia said with annoyed frustration and she nodded at him. "You're structuring the conversation to do really well at accomplishing that."

He shrugged. "You're always telling me I never know when to shut my mouth. But sure seem to be saying I don't talk enough now."

Olivia shook her head and rubbed at her eyebrow. "Brian, I think if you're clumping your past abuse beside your parenting and our miscarriage next to Benji's illness – your mind is going places it shouldn't and you aren't running your mouth enough. To me. To a support group. To your therapist."

"That's not what I'm doing," he said.

She stared at him. "It sure sounded like it was."

He sat there. He said nothing.

"Do you want to talk about any of that? The abuse? ... The miscarriage?"

"Do you?" he boomed.

Olivia exhaled and kept eyes on him. Silence but he looked at her too. She knew it was one of his favorite tactics in the box. Brian was good about sitting there in silence until the perp was uncomfortable enough they started talking. But Olivia also knew that it was an act. He was more uncomfortable right now than her.

"Brian, I don't know what you're getting at here," she sighed. "But unpacking the abuse and what it means for you as a father – is more than I can mentally, emotionally or physically manage tonight. And I know if we go there – I'm not going to say the right thing here. That maybe I never will – no matter how many times I tell you that you're a wonderful father to those two kids."

"Not making it sound like it tonight," he said.

She stressed at him: "Tonight we are talking about our parenting as a unit. I am not assessing you as a father."

"That sounds a lot like what the lawyers call a distinction without a difference."

She sighed and shrugged. "Maybe it is. To them. But, for me, right now, in the context of what … this disagreement is about … there is a difference."

Brian just gave his head a little shake and looked at her. She actually thought he was looking passed her and into their little back lot. But with the lights on in the dining room, she knew that all he'd really be seeing against the dark glass was his own reflection. And it was a sad one.

"Brian, you are a good father. And because you're a good father, I am having a whole lot of trouble understanding why you can't free yourself up for two hours a night once a week this winter to go and fucking learn with me how the fuck we get him through this? To teach him to be an adult man managing this disease and life, Brian! And the answer I've got is that … you aren't coming because … it's about you as a man. Or as a cop and whatever … show you still feel like you have to put on for some life-long beat cops sitting up on barstools waiting for their pension. Or it's about us as a couple. And our parenting."

His head shook again but nothing came out of his mouth.

"We've got three years, Brian," she said. "Three – until he's in high school and not wanting much to do with us but needing to take more responsibility for his health and his medication administration. To stay compliant. To talk to us about symptoms or signs of a flare. To get in front of it – to learn to do that for himself. Four after that until he's done school. Eighteen. Working, college, moving out? I don't know. But I do know that seven years – it goes by fast."

"I know …" Brian muttered.

"So then do not tell me that 12 weeks – twenty-four hours – in a workshop is not going to go by like that too," she pressed harder. "You sure as hell make at least two hours a night available to have whatever sports team on in there," she gestured over at their TV.

"I see enough shrinks," he said flatly.

"Oh," she nodded. "Is that the problem? Because, I haven't seen any statement of benefit envelopes come in from your insurance lately. I'd say since before Christmas. Maybe before Thanksgiving."

"Now you're going through my mail," he said. The glare had returned.

She glared right back. "If you mean, that coincidentally since about mid-November, more days than not I'm the one doing after-school pick-up, homework and dinner – and, yes, picking up the mail and sorting out the junk from the actual envelopes that need to get open – then, yes."

He just stared at her without comment. And she kept firm on his line of sight.

"You are not talking to me," she said firmly. "You have a lot going on at home and at work – on top of everything else you were already trying to sort through – you need to be talking to someone. You might be surprised to find that the lack of sleep you're complaining about - AND what's going on with you below the belt - has a lot less to do with kids ending up in our bed than it does you not getting the help you need."

"And when's the last time you went in to Lindstrom?" he threw back at her.

Olivia rubbed at her eyebrow. "You're right," she acknowledged. "I'm not likely scheduling sessions as regularly as I should. And I would likely benefit from making and keeping those appointments too. And, I acknowledge that it's hard with our work schedules and the kids schedules to … make the time for those kinds of appointments. But we both should be, Brian. And, right now, at least I'm still seeking out support and help elsewhere."

"I'm fine," he said.

"Right," Olivia nodded with some more exasperation. "You're always fine. You're always dealing with it your way," she gestured at the noise machine and then stared at the table for a long beat and then looked at him. "I am not fine. I am not fine going to those sessions alone when the majority of other participants there – it's the mom and the dad. When the women who are there alone – it's because they've quit their job, given up their career – to be the family member who's managing their child's illness and taking them to their appointments. I'm not fine that most of the other lupus parents there, Brian – it's teen-aged girls, not little boys. I'm not fine that their kids it's attacking their kidneys and our son it is attacking his lungs. I'm not fine talking about my private, personal, family life in there with a bunch of people I don't know. And I'm really not fine trying to learn and apply some of what they're teaching in there without the support of my partner. And I understand we have different approaches to dealing with … life and the job and trauma. That we've always had different approaches to parenting. And I've always felt that brought different skills to the table in raising these two kids. But I am telling you, Brian, if we aren't able to find some kind of common ground about how to get these kids to adulthood while dealing with a chronic illness – if we can't at least get into the same chapter if we aren't going to be on the same paper – then … we aren't just going to have problems as a family. Or as parents. This is going to have repercussions for us – as a couple. For our marriage."

He made a little sound and stared at the table. "And there it is. Submit or lose you and the kids," he mumbled.

"That wouldn't be the way I'd look at it," Olivia said.

"Yea," Brian muttered and pushed out his chair, reaching to collect the noise machine. "It wouldn't be. Because you always win."

And he wandered over to the couch, turning on the television and flipping until he got it on a nightly sports recap. He stared at the TV as he blindly found the PlayStation controllers and worked on removing the batteries from them to put in his white noise machine. Olivia stared over at him. But he refused to meet her sightline that she knew he must've felt burning into him. At the very least it was burning her eyes with the sting of hurt, angry, frustrated tears.

Olivia was pretty sure she hadn't won. She'd just lost. They both had. And Benji and Emmy just had too.