Happy new year! If you're counting along correctly, you know this is chapter 30, which is all sorts of crazy and I don't even have the words to say other than I love you all and I'm so grateful for each and every one of you, especially those of you who leave me such amazing feedback. Y'all are the best :)

If you like me, and why wouldn't you, I'm on twitter lucythespencer, and I promise I'm a much nicer person than my writing would suggest :D

A/N: Warnings for sex and a lack of Christmas cheer. Timeline-wise, this brings us right up to the beginning of Psycho/Therapist. For the purposes of this story, the whole cringe-inducing scene with Dr. Lindstrom and the necklace never existed. Title from pretty good year by Tori Amos. Quotes from baker baker by Tori Amos, long december by Counting Crows, brothers on a hotel bed by Death Cab For Cutie, and levon by Elton John.

{you came to make sure that I'm not running
well I ran from him in all kinds of ways
guess it was his turn this time}

For all the times that you had rehearsed this conversation in your head, you still didn't feel quite prepared for Elliot to actually, you know, pick up the phone.

"Liv?"

"Uh, yeah. Hi. I'm...is this a bad time? Should I call back later?" you ask, half-hoping he'll say yes even though you know how improbable it was to even get him to answer once.

"No," and you don't know which question he's saying no to, but you'll pretend it's the former. "No, uh, what's...going on?"

You almost laugh because really...can he not guess? But then you realize he's throwing out unnecessary questions for the same reason you are- postponing the inevitable. You can hear voices in the background and you know you need to arrive at the point before he's surrounded by the whole goddamn happy family, so here it goes. "Fuck, okay, El...shit. I'm sorry for what I said, did...I'm not gonna explain it all to you. I mean, I would if you wanted me to but...I think you already know the reasons why. I know I hurt you but I also- you know why I...and I'm sorry. So sorry. Please."

"Liv...you don't need to do this. I promise. And maybe you were right, maybe it shouldn't have happened," and your own words hit you like a forest fire in an abruptly shifting wind, fierce and scalding. "But you're not the only one who needs to figure out what the hell they're doing and I think...I've gotta have some space to do that."

"Space from me." He doesn't answer. "So basically what you're saying is I'm getting shut out again, only this time you're giving me advance notice."

"I need time to focus on things here, y'know? And I can't do that if you're the only goddamn thing I think about." He chuckles to himself, and you can almost see him raising his eyebrows in disbelief at what he's about to tell you. "As much as I fuckin' hate saying it, God I fuckin' hate it- you'll be okay. You've got dumbass. He...he loves you."

"And you don't."

"I didn't say that."

"Yeah." you didn't say anything.

"Look, I...need to go."

"So what now, El...I see you when I see you?"

"I'll give you a call."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I was wrong. Please."

"Liv."

"I. I love you."

"G'night, Liv."

{the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters but no pearls}

"As much time as you need, Olivia, feel free to take it," Barba says when he sees you heading toward the door of his office.

"I'll be fine." It had been another morning spent preparing your testimony, this time with a special guest star. Barba had insisted on bringing in a friend of his, a defense attorney from upstate, to critique your performance because he wanted someone to 'see it with fresh eyes'. You knew it was probably for the best, that Barba himself was reluctant to go too hard on someone he'd have to continue working with in the future, but that didn't mean you appreciated having yet another stranger joining the ranks of those who knew every minute detail of the most humiliating experience of your life.

Well. Almost every detail. You had come perilously close to slipping, so busy trying to mentally disassociate from what you were saying that you were alarmed to hear yourself describing how you were shoved into the shower at the beach house, hitting your head against the tile. "A-and then. I fell down and he carried me back into the bedroom. He threw me down on the bed and then he left."

Barba is too goddamn observant for his own good. Guess that's why they pay him enough to afford those Armani suits. "Wait, where did this come from?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"That isn't what you said before. You never mentioned anything about this confrontation in the bathroom, about falling and hitting your head..."

You lift your chin, looking him squarely in the face like you have nothing to hide. "I must have forgotten."

"Mmhmm. So you hit your head and fell...and that was all that happened."

"Exactly."

"Uh-huh," and maybe you are not as good of a liar as you think you are, but you must be good enough because he just shakes his head and continues. "So were you or were you not handcuffed to the bed when he left?"

"I was."

"Well, you left that out just now. Gotta be consistent."

And on it went. When your new legal dream team decided they had grilled you enough for one day, you announced that you needed a break and went straight for the ladies' room. You had predicted that today would get brutal, and so you had come prepared with a flask tucked in your purse- a move straight out of your mother's playbook. Were you proud to be carrying on the family tradition of sipping scotch in a locked bathroom stall at 11:30 in the morning? Of course not. But this wasn't about pride, it was about survival, about doing whatever it took to keep going.

You wonder if that's the same thing your mom told herself.

{talked a little while about the year
I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower
makes you talk a little lower
about the things you could not show}

"Liv."

You're startled to hear the familiar voice that rings out through the corridor leading to Barba's office, and even more surprised to see Nick coming up behind you. "Nick. What are you doing here?"

"Well, you know. Occasionally if I'm a good boy, I'm allowed to leave my desk," he says, sidestepping the question as he reaches out and touches your shoulder gently. "We've missed you."

"I miss all of you. Shit, I'm...just ready for it to be over. God, that's obvious, isn't it? Stupid."

He shakes his head reassuringly at your frustration with not being able to get the right words out, leading you into an open room on the other side of the hall. You sigh and lean against the closed door. "I'm fine, Nick."

"Oh, I know." He doesn't even have the decency to wait five seconds before adding "So really, how are you?"

"Nick-"

"Okay, okay, how's Mr. Benson?"

"Brian's gone for a couple days. Again."

"Yeah? You holding up alright?" He squints at you curiously. "Or...you're not alone."

You laugh, not expecting it would come out more like a sob. "I'm fine."

"No, hey, hold up. What's going on? What'd he do?" he asks rapid-fire, sounding for all the world like Elliot himself.

"He didn't do anything. It's just...it wasn't going to work out, okay, and you already told me that so-"

"Seriously, what did he do?"

"Nick! It was me, alright, I...it was me. Things were getting complicated and- it doesn't matter, it's over, and it's still none of your business."

"Complicated, huh?" he asks knowingly, but he's not smirking like he usually is when this topic comes up. "Okay. I'll butt out. If he's giving you problems, though...you lemme know."

You wonder what he would think if you told him about Elliot's encounter with Lewis- if he'd take off for Queens to personally kick Elliot's ass or if he'd just be pissed that Elliot had the idea before him- but you can wait for another day to find out. "Nick. I. Ah. You meet with Barba to go over your testimony yet?"

"Yesterday," he says with a tight nod.

"Oh. Okay. And." and are you still willing to perjure yourself for me?

"I could hear the sound of water running when you called me. I asked what was going on and you hung up."

You exhale heavily, not realizing that you had been holding your breath ever since you stopped speaking. "Yeah. Thank you."

"Liv. I know you don't want to tell me what this is about, why I'm supposed to say it-"

"It's for the best. If you know too much..."

"I know, I know, it could trip me up. And I agree- the less the better. But my point is, after all this is over...whatever happened, whatever you did or didn't do, I'm here. I've got your back. So if you ever do wanna talk..."

"I know. I...thank you. Just. Thank you." It's not something you want to bring up now, maybe ever, but you're fairly certain Nick knows more about what went on than he pretends to. He was the first one on the scene, after all, he saw you hiding from the mangled and unconscious body of your tormentor and he saw the gun that laid on the bed just above you, meticulously wrapped in a fluffy hand towel. He saw a bloody bedpost propped up neatly against the wall, and whether he kicked it and sent it flying across the room accidentally or on purpose, you're still not sure. Nor are you sure how much he heard during that ambulance ride that you never really regained memories of, the one where Brian was telling Nick he loved you over the phone while you were apparently rambling about Elliot. You vaguely recall trying to answer the medic's questions about your injuries and you try not to think about how much you might have inadvertently shared while you were too out of it to self-censor. If he had overheard you talking about...no. He didn't hear anything, there was no way. All he knew was what you told him right after you arrived at the hospital- the two of you were alone in the exam room, and in a moment of lucidity you had grabbed onto your partner's wrist.

"Nick."

"Yeah?" he replied, surprised by your sudden urgency.

"They're going to ask you...when I called you. They'll ask about it and I. I need. You h-have to, Nick, please. Please, you have to."

He crouched down a little so you were eye to eye. "Liv. What is it you need? You tell me and I'll do it, alright?"

"You have to listen, okay, you have to remember c-cause I can't talk about it again. But when they ask, when you say I called you. You have to tell them you heard water running, like a faucet running, and you asked me what's that sound, but I hung up. I didn't answer you."

You can see him mouthing the words to the impromptu script you've given him, letting them sink in. "I don't understand, was-"

"Did you hear what I said?" you hiss. "Can you remember what I told you to say?"

"I do."

"Then I can't tell you any more. The more I say, you know too much. You might slip up and no one can ever know, just you and me, that's all."

The sound of a soft tap at the door sent you reeling, muscles tense and eyes wide as your nails dug into Nick's arm. When you saw that it was the nurse, he looked at you questioningly and you nodded to say that you wanted some privacy for this.

"I've got it taken care of," he promised, and that was the last you two had ever spoken about it until now. At the time, you hadn't really been thinking about the potential implications of asking him to lie. Perhaps that was understandable. But by now you've had more than enough opportunities to think about it, to realize that it's not right of you to ask him to do this even though he willingly agreed to go along with it. It's one thing for you to carry on with this altered version of the truth, this story you concocted to fill in the gaps of your memory when you couldn't (wouldn't?) believe that you could kill an unarmed man- because that's what you thought you had done. But instead of reaching for the phone to call for help, you reached for the gun on the table and disappeared into the adjacent bathroom, determined to protect your pride above all else. Even if it meant-

"Liv?" Nick asks quietly, careful not to startle you.

"Oh god, I'm sorry, I just," you start to explain. As your eyes meet, you know there's no way that you can tell him about your internal conflict or about how you recognize the magnitude of what you're asking him to do, not without confessing to the multitude of sins that you're just not ready to expose to the light of day. "I mean. Thanks."

He nods in acknowledgement, one corner of his mouth turning up into a smile. "You sure you don't need me to have a little chat with Stabler?"

"Nick. Drop it. I promise you...it's over, okay, it's done and I was the one who ended it so let's just...not."

"Can I ask what finally made you decide to break it off?"

Like all the men in your life, he just doesn't quit. "You can ask, but I won't answer."

"Fair enough," he says with a shrug. "Whatever it was...trust yourself. You'll make the right call in the end, Sarge."

"And what if I didn't?"

"Y'know what they say...then it's not the end."

{I can't remember the last thing
that you said as you were leaving
and the days go by so fast}

[hey I'll be home in an hour]

You were in bed when you got the text from Brian, albeit not sleeping. Instead you were lying awake, head resting on a pillow that still smelled faintly like Elliot and watching the winter sun sink beneath the horizon of the late afternoon sky. Today was the 23rd, meaning that the solstice had been two days ago. Could there be any finer example of poetic justice than spending the longest night of the year alone after the two most important people in your life had both walked out on you in the same day?

Your mom had always liked the solstice, the idea of a day where fortunes are reversed and little by little, the light begins to overpower the dark. Of course, it's only temporary. Six months later the darkness starts to gain the upper hand and the cycle continues. But right now you'd settle for that temporary reprieve, because although you may be at the turning point- the sky you see in front of you is endlessly black.

Nevertheless, you turn on the lamp and spring into action. Time to put your game face back on. You throw the offending pillow into the closet (if Brian's actually noticed how often you change the bedding while he's away, he's never mentioned it), do a half-assed job of pulling up the covers so that it doesn't look like you've been in bed all day, and head for the shower.

After showering and getting dressed in clothes that are slightly too nice to be wearing when you're lounging around the house, you're left with just enough time to do your hair and makeup, get rid of the empty bottles scattered here and there, and pop a lasagna in the oven so it would seem like you've been cooking. After all, what's the likelihood that he'll remember you made it weeks ago and put it in the freezer? He texts to say he's downstairs as you finish cleaning up the kitchen, so you dash into the living room and pretend to be casually watching TV when he walks through the door. Mission accomplished.

For as much as you dislike him being gone, you have to admit that he does his best to make it up to you when he comes back. You're not the type to sit and compare notes about what's been going on in your separate lives, and today is no different, because you've barely said hello to each other before you're flat on your back at the foot of the bed and he's got his head trapped between your thighs.

He fucks you standing up, fingers digging into your sides as you hold onto the windowsill and try to keep your forehead from hitting the glass. You had wondered if he'd forget how things were left between you three days ago, how you retreated into yourself and refused to speak- even to say goodbye- after your uncharacteristic plea for him to stay was denied. He'd made a comment then about how 'you're making this way harder than it has to be,' and you weren't sure if he was talking about him leaving or just life in general, but he was clearly running out of patience and seemed more than a little relieved to be getting away from you.

In any case, he definitely hadn't forgotten. Makeup sex for the two of you wasn't about apologizing or reconnecting, it was about getting your residual frustration out and that could have some pretty fucking fantastic results. He's much less careful with you than he's been in a very long time and you keep urging him on, I said fuck me, damnit, harder, because it feels good, it feels like what you deserve and this may be the only way you're ever going to get Elliot out from under your skin.

Later on that night you'll study the finger-shaped bruises above your hipbones and wonder if Brian was thinking the same thing.

{you may tire of me as our December sun is setting

cause I'm not who I used to be}

You're in the middle of getting dressed, wearing only an old shirt of Brian's when he comes out of the bathroom and sighs under his breath. "Liv..."

"Problem?" You follow his line of sight to a patch of skin on your outer thigh that's been freshly scrubbed raw. "It's nothing. Leave it."

"It's something."

"Look, I've got a lot going on, okay, it happens and I'm not hurting myself so please just let it go." You're not going to try to explain how you have an almost physical craving for the way it burns, for the sting you feel every time something else is touching it, because at times the pain is the only thing keeping you from being irreversibly trapped in your own head. He wouldn't get it.

"That's what I've been doing, but don't you think it's gettin' to be a little...does your therapist know?"

"Are you going to call and tell him?"

"Jesus fuck, Liv, drop the attitude. I just wanna talk to you, alright?"

You shrug, pulling on a pair of sweats. "Great, we'll talk. But not about this."

"What can we talk about, Olivia?"

"Now who's got an attitude? You're never around, so excuse me for not wanting to fight while you're actually here."

"I'm never around," he repeats to himself, rubbing the back of his head. "You know, this wouldn't have to turn into a fight if you didn't get so goddamn defensive about everything and-"

"Stop. Seriously, enough. Let's just forget all this shit and have dinner. Can we do that?"

"It's forgotten," he announces in a voice worthy of a sarcasm contest as you stalk off to the kitchen.

You eat in silence, both of you focused on the TV and studiously avoiding looking at one another. You're not quite sure how many drinks he's had, but he's well on his way to being wasted by the time he asks "So, uh, things been good?"

"Yup."

"They move the trial date back?"

"No." You're tempted to open up a new bottle and join him in his journey toward drunkenness, but you already had a few this afternoon and besides, you're pretty sure he'll want to go again once he forgets why he's pissed off at you. And on the subject of forgetting- it's time to change the topic. "Everything go okay? With...whatever you're doing?"

"Yeah, everything's fine," and that's really all you know about what he does 80 hours a week, that it's 'good' and 'fine' and the sex is always amazing after he's been gone. "You talked to Elliot?"

"What? No. You told me not to, remember, and I said okay. I haven't talked to him."

"Shit, okay. Relax." You both turn your attention back to the TV, and once again there's a few minutes of silence before he sets his empty bottle down on the table with more force than necessary. "Why don't they just take whatever the fuck they used to find this plane and go use that to find the other one? Fucking christ, it should not be this tough."

No. It shouldn't.

{he said that behind my eyes I'm hiding
and he tells me I pushed him away
that my heart's been hard to find}

"Why won't you look at me."

The words are slurred, mumbled against the back of your head as he's fucking you much too slowly for your liking. He's this affectionate, handsy drunk and you're so not in the mood for spending an hour making out and pawing at each other right now. "C'mon, Bri, I need...what the hell?"

"You only let me do you from behind," he says, unable to see how your eyes fly open like you've just heard a bomb go off.

"You're fucking kidding me with- jesus, not now, okay?"

He stops completely for a moment before pulling almost all the way out, and you groan in disapproval until he slams back into you. "God, yes. Don't stop..."

"You won't ever talk to me," he complains even as he keeps moving, one hand snaking underneath you and fingers teasing your clit.

"Brian, I'm...oh goddamn...we're not having this conversation now, so just...shit."

At least you've managed to piss him off enough to where he'll actually fuck you, even if he won't stop talking. He's drunk enough that he won't remember this in the morning anyway. "You don't tell me anything, you won't let me see your scars, you never talk to me, you won't l-"

"I swear to christ, if- fuck- if you don't shut the hell up right now I'm gonna-" You choke on the last syllable when his thumb presses against you in just the right way, your forehead dropping against your arms and your whole body shaking as you come.

He doesn't slow down, just keeps fucking you through it even as you feel yourself start to go limp from exhaustion. "I'd do...jesus, fuckin' anything for you but you won't. Let. Me. Goddamnit, Liv..."

Once he's finished, he rolls over onto his back without a word and you curl up halfway on top of him. You'll eventually fall asleep like this, and when you wake up you'll both act like the entire evening never happened.

{a long December and there's reason to believe
maybe this year will be better than the last
I can't remember all the times I've tried to tell myself
to hold onto these moments as they pass}

"Turn that off," a voice says gently. Brian comes over to stand behind where you're sitting on the couch, reaching down and kneading the painful knots in your shoulder muscles ("the biggest knots I've ever seen," according to a chiropractor you had visited over the summer, as if that was something to be proud of). On the TV, a breathless young news anchor talks over some file footage of a tall man in a prison jumpsuit and then implores her audience to stay tuned, because after the weather they would find out how the monkeys at the Bronx zoo celebrated Christmas Eve this year.

You had been a top story on every newscast on every network for the last week, and you watched it all with a sort of detached fascination, the tale of this poor woman who'd been kidnapped and the villain who she would have to face again for the first time since her dramatic rescue. Each time the reporter would make sure to point out that they typically conceal sexual assault victims' identities for the sake of privacy...but your picture had already been splashed across the universe while you were missing, which apparently gave them license to say screw you to privacy and gleefully share all the sordid details they could get their hands on. And God knows there were plenty of them to go around.

It was under this cloud of infamy that you arrived at Brian's mom's house to spend Christmas eve mingling with an assortment of relatives, neighbors, and friends, most of whom you had never met before. And while everyone was on their best behavior around you, it was obvious that you might as well have been wearing a nametag that said "Olivia, aka the girlfriend (you know, that one, the one who was raped)." For them, it was like being in the presence of a celebrity, albeit one that you weren't supposed to talk about except in hushed tones.

You were staying all but glued to Brian's side, trying to limit yourself to tiny sips from the wineglass in your hand, when one of the many children roaming freely around the house came up to you with his hands on his hips. "Are you really a cop?"

"I am," you assure the junior skeptic.

"Do they let lady cops have guns?"

You bit down on your lip to keep from laughing. "Yeah, they do."

"Have you ever shot someone in the head, and then all their brains fall out, and-"

"Colin!" a woman barked from across the room, shaking her head at the little boy as she came closer. "People are trying to eat here. Go find something else to do! God, Olivia, I'm sorry about that."

Brian was the youngest of five, the only boy and the only one who'd never been married ("and the only one who's never been divorced," as he was quick to point out). All four of his sisters had kids, and the oldest even had grandkids, so it was impossible for you to remember whether Colin actually belonged to the woman who had scolded him. "Aww, Liv's fine, Sonia, she loves talking about brains. Want me to get you another drink, babe?"

You nod eagerly, and as soon as Brian's gone, Sonia's leaning in toward you with her hand on your arm. "So what's your secret?"

"My...secret?"

"We've been talking," she says, gesturing toward the dining room, and you assume that she's referring to her other sisters, "and we like you. We can't find anything obviously wrong with you...which makes us wonder why the hell you're dating our brother. The only thing we can come up with is that you have to be hiding something. Like- oh god, it must have been a dozen years ago, but we've never forgotten. There was this girl, this Rachel, and we thought she was flawless. Smart, gorgeous, funny- we couldn't figure her out. And then she started flossing her teeth. At the table. With a piece of her hair. And we all looked at each other and thought, there it is."

It must have been a Christmas miracle, because you were interrupted by Mrs. Cassidy while you were struggling to figure out how the fuck to respond to all that. You weren't sure whether to be proud that you could pass for 'normal' and that you had basic table manners, or be afraid that you had done too good a job of faking it and were about to be revealed as a fraud at any moment. You certainly didn't feel normal, not when you sat there in the middle of a fucking modern day Norman Rockwell painting full of happy, celebrating people and felt like you might as well have been on Jupiter. That's how far removed it was from the holidays of your childhood, where you and your mother would get dressed up and drive out to Westchester so that you could sit stiffly on your grandparents' couch and try not to wither under the weight of their disapproving stares. No, it was more like holidays at the Stabler house, where...well. It doesn't matter.

You hit the power button on the remote to kill the TV and try not to think about what Elliot might be doing right now.

"Hey, I got you something," Brian says, sitting down on the couch next to you, quite obviously holding something behind his back. "Wanna see?"

"Bri...we said no gifts," you remind him. It had been, to put it mildly, an expensive year for both of you, which is why you had made the joint decision that you weren't getting presents for each other. Any extra money you had was going toward saving up for a cruise 'once this is all over'- you had your heart set on South America.

"We said no Christmas gifts. It's 11:50 on the 24th. Besides, I was getting you this anyway."

Your curiosity wins out as he hands you a black box, one that you are relieved to note looks a little too big to have a ring inside. "I...jesus, hon. I'm..."

"I didn't know when you're getting the original back," he says as you lift it out of the box, an exact replica of the necklace you had left behind months ago in the trunk of a stolen car. "And even when you do, I wasn't sure if you'd...if there's too many bad memories and maybe it'd be better to start over with a new one."

You nodded, wiping at your eyes. "I missed it. It's...god, it's perfect."

"I wanted you to have it before you went to court. I dunno why, but I just thought that you should..."

"Since when are you such a sentimental asshole?" you joke, swallowing hard and leaning in to kiss him, trying not to let your emotions make you into a complete mess. "Thank you. I mean it. I'm...help me put it on?"

He pauses after you hold it out to him, and you're momentarily confused until you realize that he's waiting for you to move your hair out of the way, that he's not brave enough to attempt it himself. You're grateful for the gesture, because having him touch your hair (even accidentally) still puts you on edge, but at the same time it kills you that it has to be like this. Everything's so far removed from the halcyon days of last Christmas, when you fell asleep with your toes in the sand and couldn't stop giggling after you had one too many glasses of champagne at dinner. You both completely missed the countdown to midnight on new year's eve because you were...otherwise occupied, but later that night you laid side by side in bed and looked out at the moon, and you remember thinking for the first time ever that this might actually be a pretty good year.

Now 359 days have passed, and the best thing about 2013 is that it's ending soon.

You lean into him when he puts his arm around you, your fingers toying with a stray lock of your hair, and he asks you what you're thinking. You're not sure how he'd react if you told him that sometimes you stand in front of the bathroom mirror staring at your new haircut, and that out of all the things you could sob about, that's usually the one that makes you cry the hardest. You spent years growing it out and two minutes destroying it because it wasn't yours anymore, it was his and there was no getting it back now. You couldn't shed your skin like a snake, strip yourself of the damaged layer and move on unencumbered, so you did the next best thing. If only it could have been enough.

"I miss my long hair," you say, and he gets it, he understands that it's about the hair and it's about so much more than the hair, and he doesn't try to bullshit you or tell you that it'll grow back because he knows it runs miles deeper than that.

"Yeah. I miss it too."

The clock strikes midnight. Christmas is here.

{Christmas day,
when the New York Times said
'God is dead and the war's begun'}