Update time! I'm here to spread holiday cheer with...uh, actually this isn't very cheerful. Merry fuckin Christmas! :D
A/N: So yeah, not the happiest chapter- warnings for discussion of sexual assault and self harm. Title and quotes from long day by matchbox 20. Beware of angry (heartbroken?) Barba...I think he'll be making regular appearances for the next little while.
Questions? Comments? Concerns? Want to meet my very own sock puppet? Hit me up here or on twitter.
Happier stuff coming in the future, I promise. Bensidy having actual conversations, liv's sergeant ceremony, a reunion with elliot, and nick meddling like nick does. But first...
{I'm sorry 'bout the attitude
I need to give when I'm with you
but no one else would take this shit from me}
"What? But I thought...wasn't it supposed to be postponed until after the trial in Suffolk County was finished?" you ask.
"It was- it is- but it looks like that's going to be finished sooner rather than later. His lawyer and the DA over there still have to work out the fine print, but as it stands now he's agreed to plead guilty on all counts."
It shouldn't have come as a surprise and really, it wasn't, but it still felt like a sharp kick in the stomach with a steel toed boot. «wake up. I like the live ones better.» He didn't care about admitting guilt when it came to the Mayers and that doomed young rookie, not unless he was busy trying to pin his crimes on you. He didn't care about them because they were nothing more than collateral damage, an object lesson intended to keep you in line, so why would he care about his 'constitutional right to due process' that he'd been so concerned about during your trial? And that's a fitting phrase, because that's really all it was- your trial. He knew he wasn't going to walk away a completely free man this time, so he might as well (as he said to Elliot) have the time of his life in the meanwhile.
It's nothing new but it's still one more twist of the knife, one more piece of white-hot metal being pressed into your flesh. You know you should look at this as a good thing, saving time and taxpayer dollars and whatever's left of Mrs. Mayer's inner strength, but you just can't bring yourself to see it that way. Not when you know he doesn't. To him, it's just one more way to remind you that he's still in control. «I was the one who offered to spare her this burden entirely.»
"Liv?" Barba says cautiously. "Can you hear me? Everything okay?"
"W- what?" you ask, so startled by the sound of his voice that it took you several seconds to understand what he was saying.
"Your eyes were starting to glaze over a little and-"
"Oh. Yeah. Sorry, I'm sorry. It's nothing."
"You're sure you're alright? We can always discuss this later-"
You shake your head, adamant that he continue talking about...whatever he'd been talking about. "Alright, so he's pleading guilty and then comes the sentencing. But I thought we agreed I didn't have to be there for that?"
"No, you don't. You have the right to be, of course, but if you still think it's best that you don't then I support that."
"I do." All the false bravado and determination you once had, all the lofty aspirations of seeing the process through every step of the way, it's been replaced by the stark reality that there's just nothing good that's going to come from you being in the same room with him. But fortunately for you, Elliot and Brian had both (separately) insisted that you weren't going back for the sentencing. You put up a weak argument strictly for show and then gave in, which let you bow out without having to admit that it's what you yourself wanted, and both of them got to feel like you had actually been listening to their wise counsel. Everybody wins. "So...was there anything else?"
He frowns at you like you might be missing something. "Well, they're going to need your help with the victim impact part of the pre-sentencing report."
"I don't really have anything to say," you reply coolly. "The judge can reread my testimony, it's all in there."
"Olivia. You know that's not how it works. Nobody's saying you have to show up in person with a written statement, but you do need to at least do an interview with the PO writing the report."
"I need to. Or what?" you fire back, struggling to resist tacking on 'you can't make me' to the end of that question. To be honest, this was a part of the process that you'd all but pushed out of your mind. You knew it existed, of course, you'd done enough of these interviews about cases you worked and you knew that the final product submitted to the judge included a portion about how the victim had fared in the wake of the assault. You'd just chosen to push it out of your mind and not think about what exactly this might mean for you.
"Look, I understand that this is hard on you. Believe me, no one wants you to have to relive this all over again, especially not me. But it's important that the judge has a clear picture of how this has affected you, and-"
"I know all this, I don't need you explaining it to me."
"Good, then I don't need to tell you how crucial it is that you cooperate. Glad that's settled." He stands up, all four foot seven of him, with his hands flat on the desk like that's supposed to be imposing.
"No, actually, it's not. What difference is it going to make whether or not they have me on record saying that son of a bitch ruined my life?"
"He could get as little as 15 years, Olivia, if he manages to work out a deal to serve concurrent sentences there's still a chance he could be back on the street within your lifetime."
You think about what it would be like, getting a nondescript envelope in the mail with a message saying 'the following inmate is scheduled to be released', and you automatically clutch your stomach with one arm as if that's going to keep you from dry heaving right here and now. "Are you really threatening me? Again? Because last time I checked, it was the DA's job to keep that from happening."
"And I'm going to do everything I can, but I need all the help I can get. If only we'd got him on one of the big two," he mumbles to himself, shaking his head.
"Oh, and that's my fault?!" The 'big two', as he called them- sexual assault with a controlled substance or with a weapon- either of those could've carried a life sentence all on their own. But the jury apparently felt like you willingly drugged yourself to the point of near-overdose, and you yourself pretty much ruined your best chance at proving the weapons charge before you'd even been rescued. You remember sitting alone in the courtroom gallery as he cross-examined the ER doctor:
"So, you're saying Detective Benson's injuries were inconsistent with what you'd expect from such a violent assault as the one she *claims* took place."
"No, that's not what I'm saying. They could have been caused by penetration with a foreign object- I'm not ruling that out. I just can't say yes or no conclusively."
"But in this deposition transcript I have here, you say that her injuries were minor."
"I was asked if they were minor compared to other similar assault victims I've seen and I said yes, I've come across much worse. But that's not to say that the evidence doesn't support her account of what happened, and I'm certainly not suggesting she didn't sustain extensive injury."
"You've come across much worse. So maybe Detective Benson isn't telling the truth. Or maybe she's just lucky." As he says that last word, he turns and looks straight into your eyes, having no problem finding you even as you're huddled in the furthest recesses of the courtroom. *Lucky.*
Before he turns away, the tip of his tongue darts out and flicks over his bottom lip like a snake. It was so subtle, so quick, that you would be shocked if anyone noticed it besides you. But that's all he really wants, an audience of one.
You wait until he's seated and facing forward again before you bolt for the door, refusing to let him see you collapsing onto the bench in the hallway, head bowed and grabbing onto your knees to steady yourself as the world before your eyes threatens to go black.
*Lucky*.
"Olivia!" Barba's raising his voice out of alarm, not anger (although he's probably angry too). "It wasn't my intention to...I don't want to upset you-"
"Because I'm so fragile, right? No. I'm fine. I'm just done with this. I did everything you told me to do, and look how well that turned out."
He takes his hands off the desk, standing ramrod-straight like a soldier ready for battle. The truth is, you don't blame him for how the trial went down- yours or Alice Parker's- but there's still part of you that can't come to terms with it, and there's this rage that's been festering and seething inside you that your therapists or Elliot or Brian or God himself can't even hope to quell because they weren't there. But Barba was, he heard and saw every ugly gesture and word and ultimately he was the one standing at the front of that room when a dozen of your carefully selected peers turned against you. There's thousands of moments you've second guessed, wondering which one was the pivotal second where you lost them, and you've spent too many hours to count turning them over in your head. It's only right that he share the load, that he take some of that burden off of you and have a turn carrying it on his own Armani-clad shoulders. But he evidently doesn't think so. "Look. You're angry, and that's understandable. But right now pointing fingers isn't going to-"
"Pointing fingers? Is that what you think I'm doing? No. I trusted you and you hung me out to dry-"
"Excuse me?"
"Yeah. You told me before, you weren't going to let him steamroll me, I think those were your precise words- and then that's exactly what you did! You just sat there and said nothing when he screamed in my face, when he said that I wanted it all, while he was getting off on asking me questions about my sex life-" and he was, you thought you were going to throw up right there on the stand when you could tell he was half-hard underneath those goddamn prison issue suit pants- "hounding me about whether I'd, whether he'd made me..." You shake your head almost violently, unwilling to let yourself finish that sentence, settling on repeating "and you did nothing!"
"Okay. I don't care if you're pissed off, you know damn well that's not what happened. I did everything I could. I warned you what could happen if we took this to trial, that it would get ugly, that there were no guarantees. If it were up to me, I would've taken the deal-"
"Because it would've been so much better to let him lie about raping me- which did not happen," you shout, in case there was any doubt in his mind, in case he actually believed the words coming out of your mouth over the way your eyes went cold and dark as you said them, "so you would've been okay with suborning perjury-"
"For you? Yes, I would, because I didn't want you to have to go through the trauma of testifying when it could've been over in an hour and you would know for sure he was never getting out. But I listened to you when you said that wasn't what you wanted- and maybe I should've pushed harder, I-"
There's a strange undercurrent running through all this, something you can't quite name even as you can feel it almost palpably, like a river current swirling around your ankles. "Oh, so you're the hero here who was trying to rescue me and it's my fault for not letting you. I get it. You're blameless, I'm the one who fucked it up. Of course."
"Well, I can't say you were the easiest v-witness I've ever worked with," he sniffs, giving you a look that says 'fine, if this is how you're gonna play it...' "And you weren't exactly always the most forthcoming when it came to...certain details."
"Excuse me? Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?!" Your mind first conjures up an image of an iron bar stained in red, but then quickly jumps to- no. No. He didn't know about that. He couldn't. No one did, not even-
"Elliot, for one," he ticks off with his fingers, and you frown at him in confusion. "He wasn't making matters any easier-"
"I told you, I have no control over him. You know that stunt he pulled, going to Bellevue, I had nothing to do with it. You know that."
"And I believe you...there," he concedes. "But I don't think you were telling the truth when you said you hadn't contacted him after that, not to mention that you knew he was in the courthouse when he had direct orders to stay away from Lewis."
"I have no idea what you're talking about-"
"Cut the bullshit, Olivia, I saw the two of you kissing."
You've been watching too many of Nick's telenovelas, because you're almost surprised when your stunned silence isn't interrupted for a commercial break. "What? Why?"
"Why? I don't know, you tell me! Tell me what on earth possessed you to think it was a good idea to...what if you would've gotten caught?"
"Then that would've been my problem, wouldn't it? It's my life, it's my relationship-"
"Until it got back to the jury- which it would- and then it becomes my problem too. Lewis could already smell blood in the water there," and you know it's a metaphor, you know you never told him about that, but you can see your tormentor straddling you with blood smeared across his mouth, feel him crushing you with his weight as he leans in and all you taste is copper mixed with salt and- "Liv?"
To your utter humiliation, you realize too late that you've just let out an audible whimper. "The trial was over!" you shout with more force than necessary, not giving it any more time to hang in the air between you.
You're unsure if you should be grateful that he's not backing down now- after all, you'd rather be insulted than patronized. "Well, from the looks of it, I'm going to say that wasn't the first time an...encounter like that took place."
"And so what if it did?" You try to will yourself not to blush, remembering Elliot's hand snaking underneath your blazer and palming your breast. "It's irrelevant to the case, not to mention inadmissible evidence- oh, but wait, you'd probably just sit there and do nothing if it came up, wouldn't you?"
"It doesn't matter if it's inadmissible or not- once it gets brought up, there's no wiping that from a juror's mind. It was bad enough that he alluded to...you know, you're damn lucky he or his lawyer didn't think to hire a PI to keep tabs on you. If they would've known you were in contact with him, especially after he went to Bellevue, they could've accused you of conspiring with him-"
"On what? The charges were dropped."
"With the condition that he not be anywhere near Lewis, plus I told him personally to stay away from you until the trial was over-"
"Which it was!" you say, gripping the back of the chair you'd long since given up sitting in.
"And you can honestly tell me that was the only time you'd seen him?" He doesn't bother giving you a chance to respond. "So not only did he potentially jeopardize our case by running off to play bad cop without a badge, but if the two of you would've been caught in a...compromising situation-"
"What if we had? You're saying that because I had sex with someone-"
"Not just anyone! Your married ex-partner-"
"-that it means I lied about...that I'd just fuck anyone, right?"
"Don't you dare, Olivia, don't you dare. You know me better than that," he says, and you've never seen him so positively irate, like he's just seconds away from breathing fire, "but you also know how rape trials work-"
"What is your goddamn point?! The trial is over, nothing can change it now, so-"
"What I'm saying is, maybe you want to rethink some of your life choices, because it looks to me like you've picked a real winner."
It was if, at that very second, some sort of vortex came out of nowhere and sucked up all the oxygen in the room. You're fairly certain your mouth is agape and your hand is mirroring the action in your brain as it flails to find the right words. "Are you, is this," you stammer, hand still gesticulating wildly, "is this a jealousy thing?"
"Now you're just being absurd, sergeant," he says in a clipped tone, but you feel like you've finally got him to crack. All of this, the disappointment at you hiding things from him, the resentment over Elliot- it goes further than a professional slight. To him it's deeply personal, a betrayal of a friendship, of...what? And why didn't you see this sooner?
"Wow," you say to no one in particular, head tilted so you're talking to the ceiling tiles. "I can't fucking believe this."
He's all business again, furiously shuffling papers against the desktop. "You can't believe someone would think infidelity is wrong. Got it."
"Since when are you the morality police?" You realize that this is the first time someone has flat-out condemned what you (were) doing- at least, someone who isn't personally affected- and you don't like it. Nick has questioned the wisdom of the whole thing, sure, but even then he's always couched it in terms of not wanting you to get hurt. "You don't know what I've been through, you don't have any right to judge me. My life, my decisions."
Little does he know that this is a common refrain, one you've said to Brian far too many times, and you just hope he has more sense than Brian so that you won't have to have this conversation again. "And we both know your judgment's been a bit...clouded lately."
"You think I just decided to have sex with Elliot on some drunken whim?" He cringes when you say that, as if the very thought of you and Elliot together is highly offensive to him. "Again- you have no idea what's gone on between us, you don't-"
"I don't have time for this," he supplies, stuffing some file folders into his briefcase and snapping it shut loudly, face still suspiciously flushed.
"So now what? You're off to go tell Brian? Cause I hate to ruin your fun, but you're too late."
"You two broke up?"
"What? No. Don't be ridiculous."
He frowns at you, shakes his head in utter disbelief. "In any case, I'm not one to gossip, so I'll let you sort that one out on your own."
"You're too kind."
"Yes, well. The PO writing the report will be contacting you shortly, so I'll be expecting your cooperation."
You're so stunned by these recent revelations that you'd temporarily forgotten why you were here in the first place. "You can expect whatever you want, but I already told you. I'm done."
"It'll get written with or without your help," he warns. "But if I were you, I'd wonder- how can I ask victims to do something that I'm not willing to do myself?"
He thinks that'll hit a chord somewhere inside you, and it does. Too bad it's not the one he was aiming for. "Are you calling me a hypocrite?"
"No. But if you've lost all faith in the system, which it seems you have...then why are you still here?"
He walks away before you can answer, and you don't bother to call after him. To tell him that you still believe that there's some measure of justice in the world and that's what has sustained you for the last 16 years.
Justice exists. Not often enough, but it does. What Barba doesn't understand is- it's for other people. People who deserve it.
Not you.
{and I'm so terrified of no one else but me
I'm here all the time
I won't go away}
«say it. say I won.»
You're alone, pacing back and forth across the floors of your apartment, unable to stop moving even to take off your bulky coat and boots. Everything is silent save for the sound of your heavy footfalls and the nearly incoherent words you're mumbling to yourself.
You want a drink. Correction, not a drink. You want to get fucked up to the point of unconsciousness, beyond thinking, beyond dreaming, to the point of nothing but blackness. Barring that, you want to get in the shower and start scrubbing at the delicate skin on your arms that's just now healing, scrub until it's raw and bloody and you're back at the point you started from. As a last resort, you want to call Elliot. You could, you know this, that you could pick up the phone and he'd be right there. But you don't want company, and you sure as hell don't want to talk. At the heart of it, you want him to hurt you so that you don't have to do it yourself, but you know that's not something you can ask him for. Again.
So that latter option's out, and you're fighting with everything you still have in you to resist the former. You have to find another way because you know they both lead you into dark places, places you can't keep going if your goal is to get strong enough to make it on your own without Brian, because in a way he's been enabling you without even trying. As long as you have the safety of knowing that whatever you've done, however much you've pissed him off, he's still going to save you from yourself- well. You like to think you're so independent, that you don't need him to take care of you, when really all you're doing is putting yourself in situations where you have no choice but to let him help.
No choice. Just like you didn't have a choice then and you don't have one now. If you don't cooperate, if you tell Barba once and for all to go fuck himself- then what happens one day 15 years from now when you get that letter in the mail, the one with NY Department of Corrections on the envelope? Spend whatever time you have left living in fear, waiting for the inevitable reunion and wondering if you could've prevented this?
'It'll be written with or without your cooperation,' Barba had said. And it still makes you a little bit sick to think about a room full of people discussing your current state, or at least the things that are already on record- your hospital trips, your panic attacks, your endless therapy sessions. But at least then you can tell yourself that it was out of your control, that you didn't willingly hand another piece of yourself over to him.
He has enough already. He made sure of it.
It wasn't enough just to hurt you. No, he was determined to break you. Humiliate you for no other reason than because he could, because he knew just how to get to you. «say it. say I won». You wouldn't say it then, wouldn't give him the satisfaction, and you paid the price for thinking (wrongly) that it would somehow salvage your pride. It was already far too late for that.
A hundred different scenes flash before your eyes like some scrambled up horror film. «you think you're tough? cause I can keep going all night but I *will* make you scream, sweetheart.» «you can lie but we both know you loved it. you were begging for it.» «what, now you can't walk? guess you'll just have to crawl. you think I'm joking? get the fuck over here. now.» «he'll know, everyone will, and they'll always wonder what a whore you really are, if there wasn't part of you that wanted it. Liked it.» «what, d'you think pissing yourself was gonna be a turnoff for me? wrong. you'll regret this, you little bitch.» «I ruined you for anyone else, sweetheart, wait and see-»
"Liv! Liv, c'mon, stop," Brian pleads. You're so far gone that you barely noticed him coming through the door, and thank God he had the foresight to reach out for your arms as he spoke, otherwise he'd have a hell of a black eye right now.
"I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry, I just need. I just need..."
He nods like he knows what you're trying to say, which is quite a feat considering you're not even entirely sure. "Just stop for a minute, babe, please? You've gotta take your coat off; you're burning up."
You hadn't realized that you were still all bundled up, sweat forming in beads at your hairline and dripping down your back, and you let him prod you toward the couch as you reach for the buttons on your coat. You don't notice that you're crying until your shaking hands fumble unsuccessfully with the button once, twice, three times, and when you look down it's no help; your vision's all blurry anyway.
"No," you say sharply before he can offer to help. You're not a child, you're a perfectly able-bodied adult who isn't going to be bested by a stupid fucking button that-
You give it one more yank and -pop!- there it is in the palm of your hand. At first you squint at it in confusion. Then once you've caught up to what happened, you look over at Brian, who is bracing himself like a man about to face down a firing squad.
You know you shouldn't think it's funny, the way he's preparing for you to have a complete meltdown over this damn button, but you start laughing all the same. "Ooops?"
And just like that, the tension (temporarily) vanishes like a balloon bursting in mid-air.
"The fuck?"
"Your face, oh my god..."
He's cracking up, you're cracking up, and it's the stupidest thing- but the laughter manages to hold out long enough for you to get your coat and boots off before you start to cry for a second time. "-holy shit, I thought you...Liv? Babe, what is it? What's wrong now?"
You're trying- and failing- to explain what's going on, afraid he'll think you've done something dire again and that's why you're completely incoherent. You have this momentary vision of him sitting next to you on the concrete stairs, calling 911 and oh god. Please don't. Please don't send me back to the hospital. I've gotta get out of here.
"Liv, no. No you don't...where are you going?" You stand up and he's blocking your escape from the couch, attempting to get you to sit back down without having to physically hold you back. Later on, when things have calmed down, you'll realize how fucking terrified he must have been right then considering what happened the last time you ran out the front door. But at the moment, you're in too much of a panic of your own to do any real perspective-taking.
"I don't know. I can't...I can't..." Frustrated by your inability to string together a sentence or force your feet to move (even if you could get past Brian, which you know you can't), you let yourself fall back down onto the couch and draw your knees up to your chest. "I'm sorry...I thought I was getting better. I'm sorry."
"What? Babe, you are. I promise. You're just having a shitty day, that's all, nothin' to apologize for."
"But I. I'm..." He makes a quiet shushing sound, telling you it's okay, he's not going anywhere, and you give up and slump sideways so you're leaning into him. He's scratching your back lightly through your sweater, fingers tracing up and down your spine, and all you can think of is I don't know how I'm going to do this without you.
{it's me and I can't get myself to go away
oh god I shouldn't feel this way
reach down your hand in your pocket
pull out some hope for me
it's been a long day, always}