Hello! It's been so long! First off, I apologize for the wait. Life, and other things, seemed to be getting in the way of writing this. But also- I knew that the story arc I wanted to write was going to take more than one chapter. Which is fine, but I also wanted to tell it all at once because (I think) that it ends in an optimistic place, and I didn't want to leave y'all hanging for long with something negative.

So...with that in mind, I have three (maybe four, depending on how I split it up) chapters completed as of right now, aka Jan 30th, 2017. I'm posting the first one now and then I'll be posting the others over the next few days, and I really hope that will help make up for my extended absence!

A/N: Please read me! This chapter doesn't contain any sex or violence. It *does*, however, contain a hookup situation where someone's not in the proper state of mind to give consent. So even though it's very PG-rated, I know that many people have been in similar scenarios, which is why I'm including this warning in case it may be triggering to anyone. Beyond that, there's nothing else to warn for other than a cliffhanger ending. Title and quotes from taxi ride by tori amos. Timeline-wise, this fits right after Gambler's Fallacy.

Once again, the sections in italics are told from the POV of Jimmy Mac. Questions? Comments? Concerns? Hit me up here or on twitter. I've missed hearing from you lovely people!

It was all falling into place.

In hindsight, perhaps I could have even skipped the step of bargaining with the insurance company and gone directly to buying Sergeant Benson drinks. But that grand gesture went a long way toward changing her opinion of me so that she could see what a generous soul I am. Also, it gave me a foothold into her life that I was able to cement with a few glasses of wine and some top-shelf whiskey.

Having been a keen observer of people for many years, I could read her well enough to know that she wouldn't instantly start divulging all her long-held secrets. And while I turned out to be correct in this assumption, I was still surprised by how readily she started talking after she'd gotten a few drinks in her. 'I don't have a problem with alcohol,' she assured me in the manner of someone who's been told more than once that she does, in fact, have a problem. As for myself, I'm not one to judge. Believe it or not, Jimmy Mac has his vices, but over the decades I've learned how to defeat them and take control of the situation. (Rule number one: never drink more than the person you're interviewing. Save it for when you're relaxing with your Pulitzers).

So in keeping with my vow not to judge, I simply ensured that her glass never went empty and that the driver had the right address when I put her in a cab at the end of the night. I nodded at all the right moments, I said all the right things, and in return I got a front row seat into the mind of Olivia Benson.

From what I'd previously gotten to know about her, it was obvious that she didn't really have friends beyond the small circle of people she works (or has worked) with. Even still, I wasn't prepared for how profoundly lonely she seemed to be. 'I think I was wrong about you,' she told me on the first night that we left a cocktail lounge at closing time. 'You're a listener. People don't listen. Not to me, not unless it's their job. Everyone says I don't talk, but you know what? Maybe that's because *they* talk *too much.* N'body wants to listen, they just wanna tell me what I'm doing wrong. And fuck that, right? Fuck that.'

'People come and go. That's what they do,' she said on another occasion, pushing pieces of lettuce around her plate with a fork. 'My own mother. She loved me one day and hated me the next, and now she's dead. No one ever...I *thought* my squad, they had my back. But they don't. Everyone tried to be so nice for a while, because they pitied me or something, but now I'm in charge and they all...they're too busy caring about themselves,' she said, and I almost felt guilty for setting her up to find them at the bar that evening. Almost. There's no room for guilt in this profession, so I chased those feelings away by signaling to the waiter to bring her another drink. 'Thanks. Really. You are...I can't count on anyone. Nobody. I had one person I could talk to, but then I fucked that up...never mind.'

I asked about her boyfriend and she frowned, tracing the lip of her wineglass with her finger. 'What about him? He's not...this is what, the second? Third? You and I, I've been out with you until last call every night this week, and he doesn't care. He texts to ask what time I'm coming home and- I don't owe him an explanation, half the time I don't even know where he is or what he's doing or. He's always working. I don't even know what he does. It's like he has this whole other world and honestly? I think he likes it better there. And now, when he's at home, know what he does? Sits with that cat and watches TV and drinks. He told me before, you drink too much. Need to cut back. But if *he* doesn't care how much he...anyway. I don't want to talk about him anymore.'

After what I'd heard from the neighbors and what I myself had seen at the station, I was inclined to feel sympathetic toward Cassidy. But still I nodded and frowned and assured her that it's obvious how much effort she's putting into the relationship. That earned me a grateful smile and a 'Thank you! Finally, somebody gets it. Wow, I...I am really sorry. You're not at all who I thought you were.'

Things couldn't have been going any better if I had scripted them myself.

Chief among her (numerous) complaints was her job. 'I hate it,' she confessed- a far cry from her previous statements about how honored she was to have been promoted. 'I had to fight to come back after I...got hurt, they didn't want me back. Nobody trusted me, I had to have all this documentation from my therapist that he didn't think I was going to snap and go on a killing spree as soon as I got my hands on a gun. They wanted to reassign me, they wanted to put me somewhere that I wouldn't have to carry...I don't know, I'd be talking to school kids and telling them to stay off drugs or some shit like that. Can you imagine? I'd quit. I needed my squad. I needed to do *my* job, the one I've always done. But everyone thought...even Brian. He tried to talk me out of it. He said it'd be too hard emotionally, whatever the fuck that means...but I came back. And I was proud of myself for it, I never thought- I didn't want this. Everything changed. I came back because I needed something in my life that stayed the same, and then my captain leaves, Munch leaves, and now I'm in charge. It wasn't even a 'do you want this job' kind of thing- I didn't! But nobody asked.'

I nodded sympathetically to encourage her to keep talking as she finished another drink. 'I'm doing my best. But it's never good enough...and maybe I don't *want* to be good at this. I never wanted a job like that where I have to be everyone's babysitter. That's what I am, a babysitter! You see how they all act. They don't listen, they fight me on everything...and now this mess with Amanda. I get my ass handed to me by my bosses for not being in control of my detectives- what am I supposed to do when they all bring their personal issues to work? I'm not their therapist.'

"If they really wanted to be supportive, like they say they do, they wouldn't be causing extra problems for you," I offered, not mentioning how her own problems are clearly bleeding into her work life, or how her abrasive leadership style may be contributing to said problems. Some may say that a good journalist always tells the truth- but a *great* journalist knows which parts of the truth to omit.

'Yes! They tell me they care so much, they don't want to burden me...well, guess what? They're doing it already.'

"That's not fair to you," I continued. "They obviously don't appreciate all you're doing to keep the squad going. How much it takes out of you."

Her eyes widened in agreement when she heard this, taking a long swig from her glass. 'You are right, you know, you are so fucking right. They have no idea. Even my own goddamn boyfriend...you know what he said? That maybe I shouldn't be so judgmental about Amanda. Can you believe that? Mr. IAB, if that's even where he works- he says yeah, she fucked up, but it's not like *you've* never done something you could've gotten canned for. Excuse me? She's a mess, and everyone defends her when...if anyone has the right to be a mess, it's me. But you don't see me doing shit like that. Brian says maybe if I got to know her better, I'd understand some things, and I'd be able to help her. Why? Who the hell's taking the time to try and understand me?'

She paused, tilted her head to one side in thought. 'Except you, maybe.'

You're sitting alone in your office, idly tapping a pen against your desk and staring at the framed photo Elliot gave you, when you hear a now-familiar knock on the door. "Hey Jimmy."

"Brought you something," he says, holding out a bottle of whiskey that probably costs as much as you make in a week. "I know I said I'd take you to dinner, but the snow's really coming down, so I thought this might make up for it."

"That sounds fine by me...I wasn't really hungry anyway." You haven't eaten much over the past week, consuming calories through alcohol instead, which probably explains the hangovers. It wasn't by design- you just don't have much of an appetite lately. With neither you nor Brian being home regularly in the evenings, your only 'meals' are whatever you snack on at the office. You're not going to bother cooking when he probably won't show up to eat anyway.

Of course, there's always the possibility that he's been home for dinner for the last few nights and you just haven't been around to see it. You've been out with Jimmy every evening this week and by the time you stumble through the door of your dark apartment, mealtime has come and gone.

You need to rein yourself in tonight. You can't keep going like this, getting three hours of sleep and then showing up to work massively hungover, barricading yourself inside your office and spending hours at a time trying to decipher the tiny legalese on a single piece of paper. The others have to have noticed by now because frankly- you've given up trying to hide it.

So you know your current schedule isn't sustainable. And yet when evening comes, and Jimmy texts you that he's made reservations at some restaurant that you've only read about in magazines, what are you supposed to tell him? That you have to go home and either drink alone or fight with Brian? It's not a difficult choice. You're not sure if you would call Jimmy a friend, per se, but you enjoy spending time with him. He points out celebrities at nearby tables and tells you all sorts of salacious gossip about them, and he always orders you these expensive drinks and then insists on picking up the tab. You're not used to being wined and dined, at least not without all the attached complications of dating, so it's fun to do something out of the ordinary.

Most of all, you like having someone who listens. It had occurred to you that he might just be doing this to get material for his story, but he never takes notes and he rarely asks questions. When he does, they're never reporter-type probing questions where he's digging for something that you're not willing to give. Besides, he's not getting any leads that are going to merit him another one of those Pulitzers he keeps talking about, not unless he's doing an expose on irresponsible coworkers and emotionally distant boyfriends.

Now here it is again, yet another night where you should turn down his offer and go home, but then you see a text from Brian saying he's at the apartment and 'wants to talk'. You don't know what that means, although you assume that whatever discussion he wants to have will go more smoothly if you've had a couple of drinks first. That's all you're going to do. You're not going out tonight- you'll stay here and have a few to unwind, but you'll still be home in plenty of time to 'talk'.

Everybody wins. It's a good plan.

{so you talk the talk when you need to
I fear the whole world is starting to believe you}

You shouldn't have let your guard down.

It was supposed to be a drink or two and some casual conversation. And it started out that way.

He asked why you decided to become a cop in the first place. You skirted around your mother's story, telling him that she had been a crime victim before you were born, and focused on the other reasons why you joined the department. How the idea of having thousands of 'brothers and sisters in blue' spoke to you as a young woman with no siblings of your own. You wanted to make the world a safer place for women like your mother, absolutely, but you also wanted to be part of something bigger than yourself. You wanted to be surrounded by people who were committed to the same ideals as you, knowing that you could always trust them to have your back.

When he asked if your career had turned out the way you thought it would on the day you entered the academy, you laughed. Absolutely not, you told him, but that's not so unusual. Every other cop you know would say the same, that it's impossible to hold onto the naive idealism that all rookies start out with.

Especially now. You used to think there was something inherently healing about getting justice, about knowing that you helped to put your assailant behind bars where he deserved to be. You wondered if that could've been the missing piece that your mother needed in order to go forward with her life.

"And now?"

"Now what?" you ask, starting to stand up so that you can refill your glass. He waves you off, coming over to the couch from where he'd been leaning against your desk.

"What do you think now?"

You gratefully accept the mug he hands back to you and take a long drink. "I think it's all bullshit."

"The system's broken?"

Either the system is or I am, you think but don't say. "Turns out that when you're on the other side, when you're the...it gives you a different perspective."

"Do you feel like you got justice?"

Another swallow. This time you barely notice the burn as the amber liquid makes its way down your throat. "You were there. How do you think I feel?"

"Probably like you got fucked over."

"Thank you!" you blurt out so loudly that he blinks in surprise. "Finally, someone says it."

You know that you weren't the only one angry at the verdict. But everyone else was too afraid to say it, so instead all you heard was 'at least it's over, at least he'll be locked up for life, at least he can't hurt anyone else'. "Just for once, I'd like to hear someone say 'you know, that really fucking sucked'.

"Because it did really fucking suck," he agrees, and you laugh darkly.

"No one wants to say it, cause they think that...what, I'll blame myself? Too late."

"But you shouldn't, though." When you shake your head and look away, he sits down on the other side of the couch. "I was there, remember, I saw the whole thing. You didn't read my editorial in the Ledger? It's been nominated for several awards already."

"No. I, uh. Avoided all that."

"I'll make sure you get a copy. Anyway, I said that our founding fathers would be weeping if they knew this is what the American judicial system had become. It was a travesty from beginning to end. That judge should be-"

"So then what the hell have I been fighting for my whole life?" you ask, helping yourself to another refill. "That's what 'm asking m'self. I don't wanna give up this job. If I do, he wins. But what'm I winning? I couldn't even win my own trial."

"It wasn't yours. You weren't the one on trial."

"Really? Cause it feels like I was. My whole life, whatever life I have, it was all out there. That I don't have a family. I don't have kids. All I have is my job and a boyfriend who hates me. I got asked about my sex life- 'member that? That was great. What else? I got asked if I fucked my ex-partner, my so called best friend who didn't talk to me for years...I don't even have friends."

"That's the guy in that photo on your desk," Jimmy says, and you can see him connecting the dots in his head. "The same one who came to see you the first day I was here."

"Congrats," you drawl, head lolling slightly to one side. "You solved the mystery. Maybe you should be a detective too."

"So...ex-partner. But you two obviously keep in touch."

"Do we?" you ask, punctuating the question with another bitter laugh. "I mean, he's got a wife and kids and...good for him. He should have those things. He's better off stayin' away from...this. Maybe he had the right idea by retiring."

"You could retire. Theoretically." You notice that it seems like he's sitting a little closer to you than he was before, but the alcohol is definitely working its magic and your depth perception may be suffering as a result.

"And do what? I've been a cop my whooole life," you say, dragging out the 'o' sound. "I dunno how to do anythin' else and...I don't wanna leave like this. I need to know that I can still get justice for- not me. But someone. Who's gonna trust me, though? No one."

"Why would-"

"I'm sorry, you know, that 'm not this feel-good story. You're supposed to write how everythin's great, and it's not. I'm not. My job is...you know how many times I end up having to go to court for some case or another? Doesn't matter what it is, from now on, everything I say's in question. Am I biased cause I was...and they know I lied. Destroyed evidence. 'm gonna have to answer for that every time I...what good am I to a vic like that? If it was me...I don't want a cop workin' my case who's more messed up than I am."

"Olivia, no," and yup, he's definitely moved over to your side of the couch. "Listen to me. I was there, remember? I saw the whole thing, and I've seen a lot of trials. I won my first Pulitzer covering the Schmidt case- the guy who ate his neighbor back in 1992. I'll email you a copy, it was a great piece...but what I'm saying is, Jimmy Mac knows courtrooms. And you handled yourself beautifully in one of the most difficult cases I've ever covered. If the jury didn't agree- it's cause they're simple people. Easily duped. But I and my colleagues, we saw through the bullshit. We believed you."

You bite your lip, wordlessly shaking your heavy head. Your chin is almost resting on your shoulder now, and his face is close enough to yours that your eyes can't focus when you look at him.

"You're going to be a better cop for having been through this. We've gotten to know each other, haven't we? We have. And I've seen what you can do. You're an amazing woman, Olivia. A survivor."

You try to shake your head again, but you can't.

He's getting closer.

{this is where you know

the honey from the killer bees}

Oh my God.

He's kissing you.

You're trapped inside this numb shell of a body, disconnected from any sort of physical sensation, but he's definitely kissing you even if there's a thick layer of whiskey in your veins that's keeping you from registering the actual feeling of a strange mouth on yours. It's almost like you're a detached observer watching this scene play out and you know you should intervene, but you can't break through that fourth wall separating the audience from the actors. So you watch. As your lips part automatically, as his hand goes to the back of your head and you let out a faint cry of protest when he touches your hair. At least, you think you do. Whether you actually make a sound, you don't know.

He's kissing you. He's kissing you and you can't, aren't, doing anything to stop him even though you don't want this. He's not hurting you. You're not scared of him, you're just shocked, and oh my god you are going to end up having sex with him right here on your office couch because you can't figure out how to tell him no, and you can hear the voice inside your head laughing maniacally at your predicament. You did this to yourself. You got drunk and fucked up, again, and now you're about to be fucked. Literally. Ain't life grand?

The voice is still laughing so loudly that you're surprised he can't hear it, that it hasn't interrupted things long enough for him to stop and notice that you haven't moved this entire time. Because that's not normal, that should be a huge fucking clue that maybe something's wrong, and your eyes fly open and start blinking in a silent SOS.

He doesn't see you, of course, and your attempt at Morse code fails anyway because your eyelids fall shut from the effort. But you feel one hand nudging at your shoulder, pushing you back until your head meets the armrest of the couch. Oh God. This is not good. This is like every nightmare you have when someone climbs on top of you and you can't move, can't speak, and now his fingers are playing with one of the buttons on the front of your blouse and now you're starting to be afraid and-

"Hey, no. Stop," you say weakly, surprised at the sound of your voice finally echoing in your ears. He instantly pulls back, but before either of you can say anything else a figure appears in the doorway.

"What the hell is this?"

Who is the intruder? Hint: whoever you think it is, you're probably wrong. Tune in tomorrow (1/31/17) to find out...