Finally a TG update! See, I promised you it was next! This one is shorter than most, so I apologize about that, but I just thought it was structured so nicely that I wanted to leave it on this note. But I've already started in on the next chapter, so maybe it won't be long in coming. In the meanwhile, if you like sometimes sweet, sometimes dramatic family feels, I updated After All with a couple of new chapters earlier this month. *end shameless self promotion*

A/N: Pretty tame. Minor references to self harm and problem drinking. As in the last chapter, the portions in italics are 'excerpts' from Jimmy Mac's unpublished article on SVU. He's beginning to get to the good stuff...uh oh. Title and quotes from wish you were here by pink floyd, other quotes from release me by the like (which is such a fun catchy song despite the lyrics, I highly recommend it).

Once again, THANK YOU to everyone who reads...especially those who take the time to comment here or on twitter. I really love hearing what you think.

Coming soon- barson conflict, bensidy plus cat, and elliot makes a surprising offer. BUT FIRST...

{so you think you can tell
heaven from hell
blue skies from pain}

When I arrived at the address Benson had given me, my initial thought was that there must have been some sort of mistake. I'll admit that, at first glance, this did not seem like the sort of neighborhood or building for a couple of civil servants. Upon closer inspection and after conversing with several of their neighbors, I must say that I still remain puzzled about the state of their finances (and that I am not the only one who feels this way).

Benson greets me at her door looking slightly more casual than she does at the station, although she's still more heavily made up than any other female I've encountered at the NYPD. In her arms is a fluffy cat whose coloring makes him appear to have a Hitler-style mustache. She explains to me that Peanuts belongs to a friend of Brian's, and they are caring for him while said friend is on vacation, but then assures me that Peanuts will be confined to the bedroom during my visit.

While she goes to carry the feline away, I introduce myself to the apartment's other tenant. In stark contrast to Benson herself, who always has a wariness about her lurking just beneath the surface, Brian Cassidy is an affable fellow who seems permanently at ease. We strike up a conversation about my last feature published in the Ledger, about a New Jersey man who quit his job and left his family in order to devote himself full-time to scouring the coast of the Indian Ocean for wreckage from the missing flight MH370. It's a subject of great interest to Cassidy, who subscribes to a theory that the plane was secretly diverted to a Russian airbase in Kazakhstan.

Benson returns, chiding her boyfriend for his choice of topic. I compliment her on her well-decorated apartment, which appears to have all new furnishings and is spotlessly clean minus a sprinkling of cat hair.

Moving in together was an easy choice, she says when I ask about her decision to relocate after her abduction. "It was something we had planned a long time before- we were just waiting for the right place to open up."

"We were practically living together before that anyway," Cassidy chimes in. "It had nothing to do with, ah, what happened. Just didn't make sense for me to keep paying rent when both of us were at one place or the other most nights."

Their relationship is less than two years old, but they have a long history. Cassidy explains that they worked together when both were rookie detectives ("We were great friends," Benson adds). He transferred into the Narcotics division and the two lost contact until they were reunited during a case- one that would eventually lead to Cassidy being shot twice in the chest and nearly killed.

"The recovery sucked. But she put up with me the whole time until I was on my feet again," Cassidy says. "And then I got the chance to do the same for her. Although, I mean, she bounced back quickly. It's not easy, but she did. She's been able to put it all behind her and...she's back doing what she loves, she's in charge...she's moved on."

Benson agrees. "We've both been there for each other. Through things that most relationships probably wouldn't survive, but here we are and...I think the key is trust. I trust him completely and I know he trusts me. I'm very lucky."

{mine is such a sorry state
I gave my heart away
when I could love with grit and guts
and reckless unrestraint
those were the days}

"Hey Bri, can we...I wanted to talk to you about something."

He turns away from the TV looking positively shocked, as if a piece from that stupid plane had just washed up in your living room, and the way he's so quick to switch off the hockey game and toss his phone aside leaves you with an ache somewhere dangerously close to your heart. "Course, babe, should I...you wanna sit down?"

"Yeah." You opt for the chair rather than a seat next to him on the couch, but he moves over to sit closer to you anyway, and you draw your legs up in front of you as a makeshift shield. This is not your forte- apologizing, at least. Lying you are quite adept at. It doesn't mean you take any particular joy in it, though. You'd rather not be doing this, but then you think about standing next to Elliot's car in the cold and him asking 'you and dumbass doing okay?', and how you lied then too and told him everything was fine when it wasn't. But you only lied because you promised him you'd make it work, like he was doing with Kathy, and then he leaned over and kissed you while your back was pressed against the freezing cold window and you knew you'd said the right thing. Still, it was a lie. And now it's time for another. "I, uh...I needed to tell you that I'm sorry. About what happened the other night. You were just concerned, I know, and I overreacted."

He sighs in pure relief, even closing his eyes for a second with all the gratitude of a man strapped to an execution room gurney when that call from the governor arrives. You quickly look away, forcing the image out of your mind until much later that night, until you can lock yourself in the bathroom and slump down on the closed toilet seat as you start to cry. "Oh thank God. Liv, you've gotta know that I'd never...I want you to be happy. That's all. I don't give a fuck about anything else."

"I know, Bri." And you do know. In good times and in bad, he's never given you a reason to doubt his sincerity. What you don't know, however, is why you've gotten out of the chair and made your way over to him or why your hand has found its way to his knee in a gesture of comfort. This wasn't part of the plan. "You've been- you are- so patient and understanding and you haven't given up on me, ever, even when I don't know why you keep trying to...I'm difficult," you blurt out, nodding as you say it just in case he starts to question his hearing. "I understand that. And the fight we had the other night- I shouldn't have said what I did."

He graciously neglects to mention that there wouldn't have been a fight at all if it weren't for you starting one in response to his well-meaning, if perhaps poorly timed, question. "But you get what I meant, yeah? I know you probably think I'm full of shit but I swear to christ, it wasn't my way of trying to tell you I need to get laid. Because I don't. I mean, not that I don't want to, that's not it, but I'm fine as we are right now. And you've always been very...ah. I don't feel neglected. Totally the opposite, I feel guilty sometimes that-"

"Sssh, stop," you say, both because you know he'll start pondering his dick falling off again if you don't intervene now, but also because you're hoarding all the guilt this room can hold for yourself. It's not meant for him. "You shouldn't, I promise...I don't want you feeling guilty. Trust me," and oh, that's rich coming from you, but you're actually not lying about this. It makes you feel good, makes you feel useful and wanted and for all the shit he puts up with, you figure the least you can do is get him off on a somewhat regular basis. (And you hate the way that sounds, even in your head, like it's a sort of business transaction. But that's how it has to be.) "I just- I'm sorry. That's all I wanted you to know."

He assures you he does, and it's so wholehearted that it makes you want to scream. Why can't he see that you're full of shit? If he was really listening, if he really knew you- then he should realize something is very wrong. You rarely apologize, not for anything bigger than a casual misstep and certainly not with the words 'I'm sorry.' And when you do, when it's not badly veiled sarcasm, it's borne of desperation and probably an ulterior motive or two. Apologies are like 'I love you's in your world. Both leave you suspended in peril, waiting on someone else's rejection or acceptance, and you learned at a very early age to expect the former. But in this case, Brian's all too eager to forgive. "It's okay, babe, really. I'm not mad. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything, maybe I was pushing too hard, and I don't wanna fuck it up when...I mean. That's kinda the one thing we're best at figuring out. Talking about, whatever."

"Sex."

"Yeah."

You nod as both of you lapse into a deeply ironic silence, at a loss for what to say next. It's the truth, that you're probably as open and honest with each other as you ever are while you're both naked. (And not just the 'I want you to fuck me harder' kind of honesty, either). But then you think about your therapist wondering aloud if you have sex as a way of avoiding your feelings (yes) because it's easier for you than actual communication (yes) and you realize that maybe you're not so great at this 'one thing we're best at' after all. "You've never said you're sorry."

"Huh?"

'Huh' is right, because you're not sure why that just came out of your mouth. You wanted to say something to fill the silence, to keep him from asking questions, but you may have revealed more than you intended and there's no going back now. "You...you've never. I mean. There's been so many times when things have been, ah, getting started...and then for whatever reason I just...can't keep going. And I know it's frustrating, because it's sure as hell frustrating to me. You know that. But you always listen to me, and you never complain, and you give me my space and never tell me 'I'm sorry' afterward."

He grimaces, rubbing his chin as a faint blush creeps up his neck. "No, I guess I don't...I dunno. I just never wanted you to feel guilty, and if I apologized, you'd feel guilty that I felt like I owed you an apology?" He shrugs and it comes off less like a gesture and more like a nervous tic. "Don't take this the wrong way. But I knew that...well, at least right in that moment, it wasn't about me. I wasn't the reason you were upset. Cause, uh, when I am the one you're mad at? Trust me, I know it."

"God, yes, I...you get it," you say, and you're not sure if you're laughing with amazement or relief or even amusement at his attempt to lighten the mood with a joke. Unlike Elliot, you've never considered him a 'dumbass', but there's still these times when he says something so goddamn perceptive that it catches you off guard. He understands you more than you realize, maybe even more than you understand yourself most days. All he's lacking, ironically enough, is the ability to know when you're lying. And ultimately, you suppose that's going to be his undoing. "You get it. And I- I'm so grateful for that. I wish I could do better putting it into words, but..."

"It's okay." But when you look at him, you can tell that it's more than okay. He honestly thinks this is you opening up to him, which is why you lean in and kiss him with just enough intensity to ensure that you won't have to talk any more tonight.

He cups your cheek with his palm, his other hand reaching around to your lower back in order to pull you in closer, and his mouth is warm and familiar and you know that in another life, you could have been happy like this. It could've been something that lasted, something that might never come easy but would be worth fighting for. You would be worth fighting for.

But in this life, you can't ask that of him. Even if he's already gone to war for you, against you, night after night. Even if he's the only one who's never given up. It wouldn't be fair, not when you're unwilling and unable to fight for him with the same tenacity. You've never subscribed to the idea of soulmates, or that some relationships were just meant to be. To you, they only ever work because two people are equally determined to not let them fail, and that's not what you have here. You don't deserve him. And he doesn't deserve you. What the future holds for either of you, you're not sure.

But you know it's not this. You gently pull away from the kiss with no small amount of genuine reluctance, giving his knee another squeeze. "I'm gonna go get ready for bed."

He tells you he'll be there in a minute, and you're thankful for the chance to reach into your purse without being noticed before you disappear into the bathroom. Your eyes start to well up as if on cue, but there's no time for that now, so you quickly turn on the tap and splash some cold water on your face. Not yet.

I look in the mirror and I don't like what I see, you remember telling someone years ago, and a glimpse of your reflection as you peel off your shirt only confirms that it's still as true as it was back then. And there's no one to blame other than yourself, you can't pin this on your scars or even the person who put them there. Not when the ugliness radiates from somewhere much deeper than a few damaged layers of skin.

You open up the miniature bottle you've been clutching and look away from the mirror, exhaling in premature relief as the liquor coats your throat on its way into your veins.

{you're a boy that I could love and all I do is run
but still I keep you hoping someday soon our day will come
and it never does}

"So does this mean you're going to break up with Brian soon?" Dr. Christiansen asks, once again looking overwhelmed by the story you've just told her. Hey, she was the one who came to you in the ER- not the other way around. She should've been able to sense what she was getting into. Surely you must give off some sort of red flag aura to those in the head shrinking business, right?

"Uh. Define soon."

"Let's say...within the next week."

You barely avoid choking on the sip of water you just swallowed. "Oh god, no. No, that's...I need more time."

"Time for what?"

"He thinks things are going so well. We're getting along- I want that to last for as long as it can. I want to make sure that his last memories of our relationship aren't of..." Your eyes narrow, tilting your head to the side. "I know what you're thinking, that I'm a terrible person and I'm leading him on, but it's not like that. I'm just...trying to make this easier on both of us. I don't want to hurt him any more than I have to."

"I believe you. And I wasn't thinking that you're a terrible person. But what it sounds like to me is- there's a part of you that doesn't want the relationship to end."

"There is. Of course there is. I don't know how...I promised Elliot I would make this work. He and I, we agreed that it's too late and things are too fucked up for us to ever be anything more than friends. We tried the whole seeing each other on the side thing and it was a mess. Both of us were trying to make it into more than it was," you say, trying not to think about morning texts and late night phone calls and need you, can't give this up murmured against your bare skin, "and so that's why it had to stop. We both have other people in our lives, we love- I mean, he loves his wife and his family...he definitely doesn't love Brian but it makes him happy that I have somebody. He says he feels better knowing I'm being taken care of. So if I break it off- Elliot's just now starting to fix things at home. He needs to be able to do that without worrying about me."

"So you're staying with Brian because it makes him happy, and it makes Elliot happy. But where do you figure into all of this?"

"I know I still have to end it with Brian. I've just gotta figure out how."

"You have to," she repeats. "We've talked about this since the first time we met, and ever since- I've heard you say so many times that you 'have to' leave the relationship, but never that you want to."

"It's better for everyone this way."

"But you just said that staying makes Elliot happy, and it makes Brian happy, and-"

"Brian's only happy now because I told him what he wanted to hear," you snap.

"Because you apologized for getting angry when he asked why you were uncomfortable having sex with him."

"Yes. And I only apologized so he'd drop it and not bring it up again. But now he thinks I'm opening up to him or...fuck, I don't know. He wouldn't be happy if he knew the truth."

"Did you lie to him?"

"Well...no, I guess I didn't," you say, rubbing the bridge of your nose in thought. "I mean, normally I wouldn't have apologized, so maybe that was insincere, but everything I told him was the truth," in the same way that you told Dr. Christiansen the truth, that you had a drink that night, but you omitted the other drinks that came after that, "but I never...he doesn't know everything. There's a lot he doesn't know."

"You never answered his original question," she says. "And you never told him why that question made you so upset."

"Yeah. Exactly."

"Is that something you want to talk about here?"

"No. I..." You look up at the clock, seeing that you have less than ten minutes left, and decide that you've had enough for the day. Besides, Elliot's supposed to be waiting for you, and you can feel the warm trickle of blood from a fresh scratch on your arm (something else you "omitted"). It'll start soaking into the sleeve of your blazer if you don't take care of it right away. "I need to go. I'll see you next week."

"Wait. Olivia-"

Too late. You're already gone.

{can you tell a green field
from a cold steel rail?}

Upon leaving the Benson/Cassidy residence, I decided to spend some time in the building's lobby and wait to see who would approach me. While many journalists run themselves ragged chasing leads, I myself have the luxury of allowing the story to come to *me*- no running required.

As predicted, it takes less than ten minutes before I am recognized by an admirer of my work. When I mention that I'm working on a piece about a certain NYPD sergeant who lives in the building, my newest source becomes even more excited, assuring me that he can get all the info I could want. He sends a few texts and shortly thereafter, almost half a dozen residents are gathered around to share their insider observations.

The conversation begins with some speculation on how two police officers could afford to live in this building (the consensus seems to be that Benson must have gotten some sort of monetary compensation from the city after her assault, although drug trafficking and pimping were also mentioned as possibilities), but from there it quickly moves onto the topic of the couple themselves.

"They fight," one woman says, as her husband chimes in with 'All the goddamn time. You can hear them from above, below, next door, across the hall...' The wife nods. "I tell him- Charles, I swear, we need to call the police."

"And I tell you, Sally, what the hell good is that going to do? They *are* the police!"

They continue bickering back and forth as another woman takes over where they left off. "It's not so much that they fight, Benson and the boyfriend, it's that *she* yells at him. He'll shout back sometimes, but she's the one who really gets heated. I mean- it's been constant since they moved in. If it's quiet, I just assume he's not home. I have no idea why they're still together because she clearly can't stand him."

"He's not the only one she can't stand," Sally adds, having turned her back to her husband. "She has men coming and going from that place at all hours and she fights with them too." I ask if she knows who these male visitors are and she shakes her head. "There's one that's her age, blue eyes, receding hairline...and then there's a younger one with dark hair and a nice smile. I don't like to spread rumors, but if I had to guess, I'd bet she's sleeping with both of them."

Her husband disagrees. "Don't be ridiculous. I talked to the young one and he told me he was her brother."

"Charles, you don't know what you're saying. The older one used to come around all the time, and then I didn't see him but every once in a while, and that's when the younger one started showing up all the time. She obviously had things cool off with the first guy and that's when she moved onto the next."

"Why would that kid sleep with his sister?"

They resume arguing and I look to another man for clarification. "I don't know who either of those guys are, but it wouldn't surprise me if Benson was cheating. Seems like her boyfriend's gone a lot. And wasn't he the cop who got busted for banging hookers a few years back? I saw him walking down the street with a blonde woman a couple times, so when I see him come in late, I assume that's why. Hookers."

I ask if anyone has evidence of these alleged infidelities other than garden variety speculation, and I'm met with shrugs.

"I dunno, but didn't it come up at that trial? That she slept around?"

"Maybe he's pimping out foreign girls," Sally theorizes. "I heard him talking to someone in...it wasn't English. Probably Arabic."

"I *told* you, Sally, it wasn't Arabic. It was Hebrew."

"And how the hell would you know?"

I was about to give up on getting anything concrete out of this bunch when suddenly, a woman who has been silent up to this point comes out with "Did you know about Benson's suicide attempt?"

Now we're getting somewhere.

{a smile from a veil
do you think you can tell?}