hello! Back with another chapter- thanks for your patience!

A/N: *please read me!* This one is dark, as much as any chapter has been. Not safe for work, not safe for life, probably just shouldn't be read by anybody. Warnings for references to child abuse, sexual assault, physical assault, rough sex, dubious consent...I think that about covers it. If you see something else that you think I should warn for, please do let me know here or on Twitter. I try to make these warnings as complete as possible, but there's always the chance that I've overlooked something and I never want someone to read and be accidentally triggered.

Again, I really hope it goes without saying, but I don't condone anything that goes on in this chapter. This is not a healthy relationship! In other news, title and quotes from electrical storm by U2. As before, the portion in italics is from Jimmy Mac's POV.

As always, thank you for your feedback and feel free to let me know your thoughts, either here or on Twitter. I promise you that after this- the upcoming chapters are dramatic in their own way, but nowhere near as painful as this.

But first, picking up from where we left off before...

Shit.

You'd get up and leave, but you'd have to pass by the group on your way to the door, so you stay put and drain two-thirds of your wine glass in one go. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the four of them having a tense discussion. Probably deciding which one has to come over here and do damage control.

Sure enough, here's Nick. "Hey, Liv...ah, we didn't know you were gonna be here."

"Obviously."

"It isn't...it's not what it looks like," he offers lamely, taking a seat on the empty stool beside you.

"Really? Then what is it?" You finish your drink and stand up. "Because it looks like you guys were going for drinks without me."

"Well, uh, that's kinda. I mean. It is, but it's not like we all said 'hey, let's not invite Liv'."

"That's...comforting." Your phone buzzes, signaling a text from Jimmy. [sorry, meeting is going to run overtime. Will catch up with you tomorrow]. You shove your phone back in your pocket and start buttoning your coat, grateful that you no longer have a need to stick around.

"Liv, where you going?"

"Leaving. Change of plans."

He sighs and follows behind as you head toward the exit. "Can we just talk for a second?"

"What is there to say? You clearly didn't want me here. I can take a hint."

"It has nothing to do with- hold up," he says as you start to raise your arm to summon a cab. "You might as well know the truth."

That was sufficiently dramatic, and you pull him away from the sidewalk until you're standing in the shadow of a dumpster. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, it's...this isn't a random social thing. We've been doing this for a while now. We meet and talk about...stuff."

"Get to the point, Nick."

"I'm trying!" he insists. "It started after...you know. While you were still off work. They brought in some shrink so that we could all meet together and 'process'. We thought it was stupid at first, you know what those things 1 PP forces on you are like, but it turns out that it really- we needed to talk about it. And it helped. So we kept meeting every few weeks on our own and...yeah."

"To talk about me."

"No!"

"Then why couldn't you tell me about it?" you ask. The dumpster isn't enough to shield you from the cold wind, but you still feel your face getting hot and your gloved palms getting clammy as you realize that every fear you've had since the day you started thinking about your return to work has just become reality.

"It wasn't secret so much as...we knew you'd be upset if you found out about it, and we didn't want to embarrass you by making you feel excluded, so-"

"So you knew it was wrong, but you kept on doing it anyway. Got it."

"It's not wrong! Look, I'm really sorry about this but I'm not gonna apologize for something that- it's helped all of us. A lot."

"I'm so happy for you. Congratulations," you say. "So was this the whole group, or is there more? Does Amanda bring whoever she's fucking that night?"

He smacks his open palm against the side of the dumpster. "Goddamit, will you leave her out of this?"

"She's part of it, isn't she? And I know you've noticed she comes in looking like hell every morning, and it's-"

"She's not the only one!" he says with a laugh, teeth bared.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means that I don't think you're in the position to judge."

"Why do you always defend her? Like today. You know, I used to think you trusted me. I used to think we were friends," you sniff.

"Oh God, don't start with- I was pointing out that she might be onto something. That's not, I'm not, taking sides here. But would it be so bad to actually listen to her every once in a while?"

"You sound like Fin. Is that something you two discussed at your get-togethers?"

"Will you- no one is talking about you!" Nick's voice is getting loud, enough so that you're starting to attract stares from people going in and out of the bar. "That's the whole point, do you get that? We had things we needed to say that we didn't want to dump on you-"

"In other words, you were bitching about me and-"

"Olivia, for the last time, it's not about you. Okay? Can you, for one second, stop thinking about yourself and listen? No one is...we're not here to gossip, we're not here to talk about how we can make your life harder...it's exactly the opposite. We all love you, we all want to support you, and we knew we couldn't do that if we didn't work out our own shit. Because it wasn't easy on any of us, y'know?"

"Yeah. I can see that," you say, and somehow this little speech hurts even more because of who it's coming from. It's not Cragen or Munch, people who you thought you could depend on before they both disappeared at the earliest opportunity. It's Nick, the one who's been there for you more than any of them, the one who you've confided in and cried with and even slept beside. "And I'm sorry," you add, meaning it sincerely despite the bitterness in your voice. "You shouldn't have had to...I'm sorry. If it wasn't for me-"

"No. There's only one person to blame, Liv, and it's not you. Nobody's blaming you."

"Maybe you should," you say under your breath, toeing at the slush on the ground.

"What?"

"Nothing. You should get back inside. Enjoy your little meeting."

"You don't have to leave," he says lamely, like you've shown up at his door in the middle of a party and he's trying to mitigate the awkwardness by offering you a slice of cake.

"So I should stay? And do what, sit at your table and smile and we can all pretend like I didn't ruin your evening? You can go on talking like I'm not there?"

"Nobody's saying anything that we couldn't say in front of you. We just don't, because...you've got your own stuff and no one wants to burden you with our issues. That's why we've kept getting together as a group, see? We all understand each other since we were all in it together."

"Oh. How sweet." You push past him, ignoring whatever it is that he's saying. You're tired of his attempts to explain and you might as well save him the effort, because there's not a single thing that he could say at this point that wouldn't just cut a little deeper. "Go back inside and keep bonding. I'll see you tomorrow."

{car alarm won't let you back to sleep

you're kept awake dreaming someone else's dream}

You don't go home- at least, not right away.

Instead you hole up in a corner booth of another bar a block away from Happy Time, this one with an even worse ambiance and a nickname of Stabby Time.

You don't know how you're going to face everyone tomorrow, knowing that they've been talking about you. Because let's face it, no matter what Nick says, you know that the subject has come up at least a time or two. How could it not? Even if that wasn't their central purpose for getting together, they wouldn't be meeting in the first place if not for you.

The old you, or maybe the sober you, would've felt guilty for causing your friends so much pain. And you do, somewhere in the recesses of your little black heart. But right now the guilt has been sidelined by jealousy and a not insignificant amount of bitterness. They have people to talk with. People who automatically get it because, as Nick put it, they were all in it together. When there's a memory or doubt or regret that comes up, they have someone who can relate. Hell, they have a whole group to lean on.

"People want to help you, but first you have to be willing to let them in." You've been told as much by both of your therapists. What they don't understand, just like Brian and your well-meaning friends don't understand, is that no one would want to listen if they had any idea what they were going to hear. You're doing them a favor by keeping them behind the crime scene tape, by not letting them sign a contract when they haven't read the fine print.

It's better for everyone this way. Besides, you could tell them the whole damn story in a minute-by-minute report and they're still not going to get it because they weren't there. Some things just can't be explained. You know how the rest of them must feel, what that camaraderie is like, because you've felt it yourself throughout the years when you've dealt with a particularly trying case. It's why you and Elliot would sit side by side on bar stools and drink shitty beer and never say a word to each other, but by the end of the night you felt as unburdened as if you'd spent hours pouring out all your deepest thoughts and fears. You felt understood.

So it's great that the rest of the squad can lean on each other like that. Really. But it's not something you need, not when you've done fine on your own so far. Who could you talk to, anyway? Mrs. Mayer? And what the hell would you even say to her? You haven't had any contact with her since the (one and only) day you met. According to Barba, she's 'coping. She's got a long road ahead of her.' She's never made an attempt to reach out to you, and you don't blame her. Frankly, you're glad that she hasn't. You never expected her to in the first place and you don't expect that she ever will, for the same reason why you never will. It's hard enough to talk about it with someone who wasn't there, but at least then you can almost fool yourself into thinking that you're telling a story that you heard from someone else or saw in a movie. You never would've been able to repeat it for a dozen cops and lawyers and doctors and therapists if you couldn't detach yourself that little bit and recount the events like you're watching them happen to someone else on a TV screen in your mind. But to talk about it with someone else who witnessed the same things that you did is to acknowledge that it's real, this memory you share between the two of you. There's no minimizing, no selective recall, and no lies, blatant or otherwise.

You wonder what she remembers. You never saw a transcript of her testimony, but you know from Barba that there were parts of your own recollection that she couldn't confirm or deny, and you're not sure how much of her lapse in memory was legitimate and how much was a misguided attempt to protect you. She remembered her own assault, remembered her husband's murder and how she last saw you being carried unconscious out of her room. She heard 'a commotion' coming from the downstairs living room after that but couldn't hear exactly what was happening.

Nothing about you being dragged into the upstairs master bathroom, even though you know she could see and hear everything from where she was lying restrained to the bed. «I swear to fucking God, what did I tell you was gonna happen if you-» and you were still bleary-eyed and squinting, disoriented and unused to the light after spending so long in total darkness. Your head hit the floor and you heard your mother's voice and I'm sorry I'm so so sorry it was an accident it won't happen anymore I promise just don't and you were seven years old again, being marched to the doctor because this kid keeps wetting the bed and I don't know why and hearing there's nothing physically wrong with her, ma'am, has there been any stressful events in her life lately? Your mother tells him a story about trouble at school and you nod because what else can you do? You promise her you'll be good and you hide under a mountain of blankets at night, hoping they'll conceal you if she loses all control and comes after you while you're asleep, and you try, you really do but it's not enough and that's it, you little brat, now I *know* you're just doing this to make me mad, and you're standing at the sink naked and shivering while she makes you scrub your pajamas by hand over and over because every time she deems it not good enough and you're worthless, you can't get anything right, now do it again or I'll go get the belt and you nod through your sobs but when you look over your shoulder it's not your mother anymore, it's this strange old woman watching you but when she talks, she has a man's voice- no, it's not her who's kicking you in the stomach, it's a man and he says «get up, what the hell are you saying, I'm not your fucking mother. c'mon. we're gonna show our new friend how good you are with that pretty little mouth of yours...»

You slam your empty glass down against the table so hard that you close your eyes and are surprised when you don't feel the shards cutting into your palm. Time to go home.

{the sea it swells like a sore head

and the night it is aching}

"Where were you."

Brian's voice is flat, making a question into a statement, and he hadn't even turned his head away from the TV when you walked through the front door.

"What? Work. I mean, I was at work."

"No. You weren't. I called your office and you didn't answer."

You reach for your phone and see that you have two missed calls and a missed text from him. "I must've been away from my desk. Things have been crazy."

"So you left work and came right home."

"Bri, I'm sorry I didn't pick up, okay, but-"

"Answer the goddamn question!" he snarls, and when he stands up you can see a collection of empty beer bottles on the coffee table.

"Will you calm down? You're obviously drunk-"

"So are you!"

You put down your purse, struggling to get your arm out of the sleeve of your coat. "Okay, so we're even. What's your point?"

"You weren't at work. I called an hour ago and you weren't at work."

"Since when does not answering the phone mean I'm not at work?"

"Because Amanda called me," he says, slurring the 'A's in her name, "and said you had just walked out of Crappy Time all upset and she wanted to see if you got home okay."

"I don't answer my phone, so you call Amanda?"

"You're not listening. She called me."

"She had no right to do that! I can't believe..." You shake your head, forgetting mid-sentence what it is that you couldn't believe. "Why does she have your number? She doesn't need to talk to you."

"I guess she thought she did, cause she was worried enough to call!"

"Well, I'm here and I'm fine, so maybe she should worry 'bout herself instead," you say. Finally free of your coat, you try to hang it on the hook but don't succeed. It falls to the floor and you don't bother to pick it up.

"You're so drunk," he says in that way that only drunk people can. "That's great. So're you gonna tell me where you were?"

"Does it matter?"

"Uh...yes?!" His mouth is agape. "What the fuck, Olivia, what the actual fuck?"

"What are you staring at?" He grabs you by the wrist and jerks you forward, holding it up until you see the cut on your palm that runs all the way across your hand just below your fingers.

"Wow," is your first (and possibly not wisest) response. "I didn't think...I mean, I guess I broke a glass but-"

"You guess?"

"Yeah, Brian, I guess. It was an accident and I didn't-"

He drops your arm and grabs both your shoulders, giving them an abrupt shake. It's not enough to hurt but it's enough to ensure he has your full attention. "Do you know how fucking sick I am of your accidents?"

The initial scare wears off quickly and you shove him back until he stumbles into the wall. Not satisfied, you give him another push with your palms flat against his chest. He does nothing in response, just stands there breathing heavily, and the rage inside you starts rising to a boil. "So what are you gonna do about it, huh?"

You imagine him backhanding you across the face once, twice, maybe even more than that. You think about angry red handprints blossoming on your cheek and it sends your heart racing for an entirely different reason than before.

He can see it in your blown pupils even before you can get the words out.

"Olivia. No."

He doesn't mean it. You're sure of that.

{two lovers lie with no sheets on their bed

and the day it is breaking}

You have nothing to feel guilty about.

Sure, he said no, stop, I'm not going to. At first.

And maybe you were the one who tried to keep the fight going, to piss him off to the point where he'd get frustrated enough to give in. Maybe you were the one who asked him why he was so concerned about you not answering the phone, when it wasn't so long ago that you had a relatively minor fight and he let it go for days before he bothered to check on you.

Maybe that was low. Maybe it was even lower to remind him what that fight was about, to make him think that you might not be where you are today if he would've just fucked you the way you wanted last spring, because then there would've been nothing to argue over.

You don't actually believe that, but you can tell he did by the way that his bottom lip was on the verge of quivering before you captured it between both of yours and bit down.

So maybe you made the first move, but he was the one who bit back. He was the one who grabbed you by your injured hand and hauled you toward the bedroom.

And yet he still tried to protest a few times, still acted like he was conflicted, but you weren't about to let him go that easily. Not when you need it this much. Not when you know that there's a part of him that must need it too. god, I fucking hate you rolls off his tongue far too easily and with far too much venom, and when he pinches bruises into your skin you feel that poison transferred from his voice to his hands.

He could stop the whole thing at any moment. You know it and he knows it. He could grab a handful of hair and push your head down, or shove his tongue into your mouth until you can't taste anything but yourself, and it would all be over. It wouldn't take much to scare you into putting an end to it for tonight, for even longer than that. But still he never takes it that far, never does anything you haven't askedbeggedpleaded for.

why are you such a slut for this?

I don't know I don't know.

yeah you do.

So he could've stopped, but he didn't. He could've walked away without fucking you- which was what you expected, considering he'd been barely half-hard every time you'd felt him pressed up against your hip or thigh. But then he bent your legs back until your knees were almost touching your chest and pushed into you without warning, and you were already wrung out and painfully overstimulated but that didn't stop you from demanding more god please I want-

what? no, I'm not gonna...

you think I can't take it? cause I know I can.

no I think it's, I don't wanna hurt you and-

You dig your nails into the soft skin at the base of his neck, goddamnit Brian that's the fucking point, and you hear him hiss you're so fucked up but he gives in and he's right, it hurts so much that your eyes are swimming with tears and yes ohgodohgod I want it, don't stop...

And then he pulls out abruptly and comes on your stomach, looking away from you, but you can read the guilt and self-disgust, the almost disbelief on his face and you understand. Far too much and far too well.

You want to reach out for him, pull him in close.

So instead you trail your fingers over his arm and give him a smug grin, see I knew you wanted it, and then he gets up and calls you a fucking manipulative whore and somehow that feels just as good, just as right, as the bruises speckled across your skin. You deserved it; all of it.

You hear him retching and dry heaving from behind the bathroom door as you fall asleep.

He drank too much, you tell yourself. He'll be all right.

{coffee is cold but it'll get you through

compromise, that's nothing new to you}

The next morning, I arrive a bit later than I've been doing recently so as not to arouse suspicions. These *are* detectives, after all, and maybe I'm not giving them proper credit where their investigative skills are concerned.

Or maybe I am. My first stop is Sergeant Benson's office, where I apologize sincerely for having to cancel our date on such short notice. I make up a story about my editor wanting to discuss my forthcoming feature on the legal status of zonkeys within NYC and she accepts this without question.

Confident that she doesn't suspect that last night was a setup, I take a seat in the bullpen and begin pretending to take notes on some departmental procedure manual. I do this often, as it allows me to eavesdrop inconspicuously and pick up important information, such as the time and date of planned gatherings where Benson is being purposely excluded.

By listening to the hushed conversations going on around me, I am delighted to learn that my plan was successful in further alienating Benson from her coworkers. What I didn't count on, however, was Detective Rollins doing some of the work for me. Amaro and Tutuola suspect that she is in some sort of trouble, most likely of the gambling variety. And while I personally couldn't care less about what any of them other than Benson does in their free time, this interests me insofar as it is one more thing going on behind the sergeant's back. I couldn't have scripted it better if I tried.

I watch the two men disappear into the restroom, one after the other, and then stroll past Benson's office. She's sipping on her coffee hungrily, the same way that orphan baby drank his bottle (and what was the purpose of that ridiculous side trip, anyway? I still can't figure it out). I clear my throat to get her attention and let her know that her charges have been holed up in the bathroom for quite some time, soaking up the soothing ambience of malfunctioning fluorescent lights and lead paint peeling off of the walls. She gets up to go investigate as soon as the words are out of my mouth, but I still take notice of the way she was shifting uncomfortably in her seat and the stiffness in her gait. Could it be that last night's discovery left her even more despondent than I anticipated?

I write a note reminding myself to contact her neighbors for insight and return to my desk.

{it's hot as hell, honey in this room

sure hope the weather will break soon}

When you got home, Brian had dinner waiting for you.

This seemed promising. But he turned away when you tried to kiss him, ducking to grab another beer out of the fridge, and neither of you spoke until the meal was finished.

"I'll take care of the dishes," you told him, and he nodded once before sitting down on the couch and switching on the TV. Peanuts leaps off his window perch and runs over to him in search of affection, jumping into his lap and purring so loudly that he sounds like a jumbo jet about to take off.

You refill your wine glass before stacking the plates next to the sink. All is quiet except for the purring and the soft droning of the TV- until you hear Brian swearing in apparent disbelief. "I can't fucking believe it!"

"Bri? What's wrong?" You peer over at the screen for a clue as to what caused him to break his vow of silence, but all you see is a tampon commercial, and you doubt that he would get so worked up over a girl surfing in a white bikini while on her period (as unbelievable as that scenario actually is).

"That missing plane. They're gonna give up searching next month unless they find something new before then."

"Well...I mean, they've already spent so much time and money on it, and you can't keep doing that forever," you reason.

"So you just quit? After all the work they've put in? You're just gonna let it all go to waste like that?"

"I don't know, Bri, I guess they have to weigh the costs against the benefits and right now it doesn't make sense to keep going."

You absentmindedly rest a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he jerks away from the touch so sharply that Peanuts jumps off his lap and dives under the couch. "But there were people on that plane, Liv. Does nobody care about them?"

"I'm sure they do, but they've tried everything they can and at some point...you have to admit that it's not working. There's nothing else within their power to do that's going to accomplish anything."

"But you don't just give up on people like that!"

You don't know what to tell him.

{the air is heavy, heavy as a truck

we need the rain to wash away our bad luck}