Hello again! As promised, here's the next chapter. The final installment in this miniseries will be coming sometime this weekend.

A/N: Nothing to warn from except for an angry olivia and a conflicted barba. Oh, and an inside joke that only Kath and Lexi will appreciate. I love you both :D quotes from mercy of the fallen by dar williams. Yes, I've used this in a previous fic. It's ~meaningful!

For those of you who have asked, elliot will return in the next chapter. Brian is not going to die. Thank you for the feedback! :)

When you get to Barba's office, wearing dark sunglasses and carrying a coffee tumbler in one hand and a Big Gulp-sized water bottle in the other, you notice that you're not his only visitor.

"What's she doing here?" you ask him, pointing toward Amanda.

"She has been helping me all night, trying to unravel this mess you've-"

"Hey, Barba," Amanda interrupts, gathering up her coat and purse. "I should be getting back anyway, Fin and I are supposed to be meeting with a school principal right after lunch. But...Liv, can I talk to you outside for a sec before you go?"

You consider telling her that whatever she has to say to you, she can say in front of Barba, but then you realize that may not actually be the case. Dropping both drink containers down on Barba's desk just in case he wants to confirm that there's nothing alcoholic in them, you sigh and agree. "Yeah, fine."

Amanda has that concerned frown on her face again when you step out into the hall. You set your mouth in a straight line to keep from scowling at her and sigh loudly again. "Liv. I just wanted to check in and make sure...you're positive that you're alright. That what I saw was, ah. The extent of it."

"What are you asking me, Rollins? If I'd been fucking him?"

"Um. Not exactly." She bites her lip and looks at you, waiting for you to fill in the blanks for yourself.

"Oh Jesus. You act like you walked in on him- I'm a big girl. I didn't need you to come rescue me."

"You told him to stop. I heard you. And you didn't look comfortable with it at all. So if-"

"For Christ's sake," you say, not even bothering to hide your annoyance. There it is again, just like last night, she's looking at you like you're poor fragile Olivia. The constant victim, the one who can't take care of herself, the one you see and think to yourself it could be worse, I could be her.

"Listen to me," she says sharply. You're taken aback- what right does she have to talk to you like that? She's still your subordinate. Witnessing you in an (admittedly) highly compromising situation doesn't change anything. "All I'm trying to tell you is...if he was blackmailing you, or if you felt like you owed him for something, you don't have to worry about it anymore. We made sure of that."

You ignore how that sounds suspiciously like Jimmy might be floating in the Hudson right now. "Why do you assume that- maybe I just wanted to fuck him. Maybe you should've left us alone, minded your own goddamn business instead of trying to play the hero. I can handle it myself."

"Liv, it's-"

"Do you know how much shit this could land me in? Because of you. I had everything under control and this never would have become an issue if not for you thinking that you're gonna redeem yourself by saving me from the big bad journalist. You're the one who assumed that the only reason I'd fuck someone is if I was being manipulated somehow, like I have no self control or no boundaries and-"

"Okay. I get it. I'm gonna head out now so that you can talk with Barba." You're surprised at how your attempt to bait her has failed, and yet she's no longer using that patronizing, concerned tone that she was before. She sounds like someone who's figured out exactly what's going on here, which makes you even angrier because she doesn't know shit about you. This isn't the sisterhood of the screwups or whatever the fuck she thinks it is. "Just...listen to him. And take care of yourself, alright?"

{if your sister or your brother
were stumbling on their last trial
in a self-inflicted exile
you'd wish for them a humble friend}

When you make your grand re-entrance into Barba's office, you slam the door emphatically and then instantly regret it. Jesus, that was loud. But he doesn't seem to notice or care. He's sitting at that desk that's way too big for him, arms crossed like he's dealing with an uncooperative defendant, and you realize that you're probably not going to get a lot of sympathy out of him. If your memory holds, Amanda was the good cop last night. The one who had to sweet talk him into driving you home when he might have preferred putting you out on your ass in the snow.

"I should've warned you beforehand," he says, gesturing to the two drink containers you left on his desk. You notice that neither of them appear to have been touched in your absence. "The plumbing in here's all frozen up so...pace yourself."

"You mean there's not a single working restroom in this place? How is that even possible?"

"I didn't ask you to come down here so we could talk about the failures of our maintenance crew," he responds tersely. "Anyway, I don't think I need to tell you that you've gotten yourself into quite a situation."

"But I can see that you want to. How about this- I fucked up. There! I beat you to it. Happy?" You sit back and fold your arms across your chest, mirroring his posture.

"Why would you think- no. I'm not happy. I've been here since I dropped you off last night, trying to save your ass. And it wasn't by my choice, either. You can thank Amanda for convincing me not to let you dig your own grave."

"So she's been here with you this whole time too?"

He nods. "She was adamant that someone needed to help you out, and I ended up being that someone. We didn't want to bring anybody else into this."

"Oh," you say in a voice that's as small as you feel right now. "So I...um. Wow. Ah."

He rescues you from making what could have been a never ending string of single-syllable words. "If you're worrying about Jimmy, don't. He won't bother you anymore. Trust me."

"What...why?" you ask, because again- did they hire a hitman? Holy shit, did they take him out themselves?

Barba sighs, able to guess what you're thinking. "He's still alive. But to be honest...the less you know, the better off you probably are. Suffice it to say, one of his ex-wives was a law school classmate of mine. Your new friend has a lot of skeletons in his closet. Do you follow?"

"You're blackmailing him?"

"I'm not," he scoffs. "I set the chips in motion. Let the balls fall where they may. God, I'm so tired that I'm mixing metaphors."

You don't particularly care about the state of his verbal skills right now. "And you don't think this is gonna come back to bite me in the ass? I was fine. I had things under control, he was almost finished with his article and-"

"And what, you were just trying to seal the deal to make sure he said what you wanted him to say?"

"I didn't have sex with him. Nor was I planning on it, I don't care what Amanda told you. He and I were just...it was friendly. We had things in common, we enjoyed each other's company-"

"He was using you," Barba insists. "You're a smart woman, how do you not see that?"

You hear your mother's disapproving voice in your head, as biting now as it was the day your 22 year old self told her you'd signed up to take the NYPD entrance exam. You're a stupid girl when it comes to men, and now you're going to put yourself out there with the perverts of the world? You're asking for trouble, I thought I raised you with more sense than that. "Why can't you accept that I know what I'm doing? You lecture me about Elliot, you lecture me about Jimmy- again, is this jealousy or do you just really think I can't take care of myself? That I'm this poor damaged woman who's acting out sexually to prove to myself that I'm in control and others still want me?"

"Liv," he says after a long moment of silence, the words hanging in the air like a dust cloud rising from the floor after some giant cartoon anvil has just crashed through the ceiling. He has this 'you said it, I didn't' facial expression, and you're about to tell him to go fuck himself when he stands up and comes over to sit across from you at the table. "I'm not making any judgement as to- only you know what's going on. I'm not trying to play your shrink."

"There's nothing going on," you grumble, aware that you should at least try to restrain yourself from any more verbal outbursts. After all, he does seem to be the key to you getting out of this whole shitstorm (relatively) unscathed.

"I'm not making any judgement," he repeats, "as to your motivation. But I'm not going to coddle you like everyone else apparently does. You have a problem with alcohol- and don't bother acting shocked, because we both know this isn't new information to you. The only thing that's new is that I'm saying it out loud."

"Since when are you an expert on my life? I already have a shrink- two of them- so I don't need the psychoanalysis."

"Remember that day back at the jail when I caught you drinking?"

"You didn't catch me, you- yes, I remember," you admit, because he's the last person you want to argue semantics with.

"I told myself that if I saw it happening again, I wasn't going to keep quiet about it." He holds up his index finger to shush you. "But I haven't said anything to anyone. Yet."

"Are you going to?"

"I'm not sure. Do you think I should?"

"If you really were, you would've already done it by now," you say, dodging the question.

It's a ballsy comeback, but it seems to work. "You're probably right. But it still feels like I'm making a mistake by keeping quiet."

"So what's stopping you?"

"Again, I don't know," he says, propping his elbow up on the table so he can rub his forehead. "Here I was, just saying that I wasn't going to coddle you like everyone else. I've seen what happens when the whole family colludes to enable an addict. I mean," he backtracks, and you expect him to clarify that you're not an addict. "Scratch that 'family' part. But the rest still holds true."

"I'm not an addict."

"Says every addict I've ever met."

"Look, I get that you think you're an expert on alcoholics, but you're wrong. I can stop. Just recently- I didn't touch a drink for an entire month," you say.

"Because you had the fear of God put into you when you almost cracked your head open! And I'm sure you told yourself you'd never drink again," he says, "and it lasted until that fear started to wear off and you had a shit day, so you told yourself you'd just have one to help you relax. But the problem is, you can never keep it at just one. So every day it snowballs a little more- and maybe you're not even drunk- but it doesn't matter. Because when you drink, no matter how much or how little, you get yourself into trouble that you wouldn't be in otherwise. So then you keep drinking so you don't have to think about the mess you've made, which you're never going to have to deal with anyway because everyone around you is covering for you."

"And you're not covering for me?"

"Oh no, I am! I'm part of the problem, I admit it. If I was doing the right thing, I'd report you."

"I'd probably get fired," you mumble. It may not be explicitly forbidden in the department rules and regs, but you're pretty sure that drunkenly 'entertaining' a journalist on company property goes against the spirit of the law, if not the letter. If you were a male- well, you'd likely be given a hearty pat on the back and a warning to close your blinds the next time. But you're a woman, and you know you're already one misstep away from being forced into not-so-voluntary retirement. It'd be all the proof the brass needs to confirm their belief that you're emotionally unstable and that they're doing the right thing by prying your gun and badge out of your clammy little alcoholic hands. "This...this is not good."

He bites back a sassy retort for maybe the first time in his life. "No, it's not. But the only people who are...aware of the situation are Rollins and me."

"And Jimmy, and his ex-wife."

"She doesn't know what's going on. All she did was point me in the right direction. His editor knows that the Ledger is about to be buried in lawsuits if they so much as think about running the article. I don't know if Jimmy told you, but journalism is a dying profession and the paper's clinging to life. They literally can't afford to defend themselves in court."

"What happened to freedom of speech?" you ask.

"It's still there. But so is the freedom to bankrupt them, and money wins every time."

Sounds about right to you. "So. What now? I mean..."

"Personally, I'm going to go home to take a long hot shower and then sleep until tomorrow morning. As for you- well, I guess that's your choice, isn't it?"

"I'm going to go back to work and pretend like this never happened."

"And that's why you're going to end up in yet another crisis a few weeks from now."

"Excuse me?" you say, frowning at him. "I thought you said it was my choice?"

"It is. Look around, Olivia, no one's stopping you. If you want my advice, I'd tell you that you need rehab. But I know you're not going to listen, so I won't waste my time on what you're not ready to hear."

"I don't need rehab." Your head abruptly jerks upward. "And if you're going to threaten to report me if I don't go-"

"What? Christ, Olivia, no. What good would that be? It's completely counterproductive. I've seen it for myself. You can beg, plead, bargain- it doesn't matter. You're going to have to decide for yourself that you've hit rock bottom."

"Well, I haven't." And it's the truth. You've sunk awfully low, but there's no doubt in your mind that you could go further. There's always something worse that awaits you.

"Then I just hope it doesn't take too much longer. For your sake, and the sake of the people around you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That maybe we're enabling you. I know I am," he says. "From what little I know of Brian, I can see he's doing the same thing."

"Why do you think you're an expert on my relationship now? You said it yourself, you barely know him."

"Because just in the short time I was there last night, I recognized what's going on. He's convinced himself that if he does everything right, that if he's good enough and loves you enough, he can somehow fix you. But what he doesn't realize is that it's never going to be enough," Barba says, his words coming out faster and more emphatic with every syllable.

"Wow. Okay. That sounds..." You stop before you can add 'like a personal problem', distracted by thoughts of you don't just give up on people like that and what do I have to do so you'll stop? "So what is it you want from me now?"

"What I want? I want you to realize that you need help. You're an incredibly strong woman, and I know you can...never mind. None of that matters. It's not about what I want."

"Because you want to turn me in. And yet I still can't figure out what's stopping you. Is this going to be something you lord over my head every time we disagree from now on?" You're in dangerous territory and you know it. This isn't just biting the hand that feeds you- this is more akin to ripping off the entire arm like some deranged cannibal. But you've never been graceful about accepting help from others, especially with something as humiliating as this, and you are nothing if not consistent. Your pride wouldn't have it any other way.

"Olivia, you know me better than that." And it's true, you know him well, and that's why you can't figure out what his angle is with this. He's not the kind of person who acts without knowing exactly why he's doing what he's doing, so there's something he's holding back from you. But what? "I'm not even going to justify that with a response. If I were you, though- like I told you, I'd give Amanda my thanks. She's the one who convinced me that we should keep this to ourselves."

"Amanda?" you repeat.

"Yes. She said she couldn't let you get demoted, or worse, over this. She was very insistent." He stands up, palms smoothing over his now-wrinkled slacks. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to be on my way." You hear him rustling papers, snapping his briefcase closed and jingling his keys. "Olivia."

"Sorry, sorry," you say, shaking your head to try and refocus. He's standing at the door with one hand on his hip, impatient for you to get out of his office.

After he locks up, he turns and looks directly at you. You've been trying to avoid eye contact this entire time, and not just because it hurts your head so much to focus on anything that's too close to you, but now it's unavoidable. His eyes are cold and you can tell that there's an equally frosty remark about to roll off his tongue, as sharp and unyielding as any icicle.

But then they inexplicably soften. He takes one hand off of the handle of his briefcase, starts to extend it toward you, and then lets it fall back at his side. "There's a lot of people who..."

"Who?" you repeat.

"You're not alone, Olivia. Not unless you force yourself to be."

He's gone before you can ask him what that meant.