ah, vacation. breathe it in. doesn't that smell good? yes, it does. it smells like coffee and doughnuts and ice cream and FANFICTION. life has been one hell of a ride these past few weeks, aka emotional baggage plus academic overload, and therefore this story has developed like molasses. but fear not. for here is the newest part, the part over which much squealing may occur.

it is specially equipped with dramatic flair, tense angsty angst-angst, and an ending to knock your little socks off. all padded in a super sweet layer of general-OE-vibes. it is definitely not healthy for you and will definitely thicken your waistline this holiday season, which is why you should definitely read it.

mmmm, taste the fanfiction goodness.

P.S.

lionessLeo-

yeah, I'm a milf and a dweebwab doodyhead and I kinda forgot he (being Cragen-wagen) was close to death when I wrote that later chapter. my mind is not what it used to be- steel trap rusting and all of that nonesuch nonsense. so um…just pretend he recovered fast and speedily and with great healthy strides, but with much angst in continuing with the style of the story. haha angst, tastes like sunshine gone all bad.

whoa, I am seriously all eggnogged and champagned out right now. can't wait to see what this chapter turns out like…brelajslkadksdhskd!!!

oh yeah, and I am not a law bargaining expert, nor am I extremely skilled in such procedures seeing as I have yet to graduate from high school, so no quips on the bargain scene. just pretend that's what would really happen.

…

He stands, slowly. Watching her across the glass is painful today, shit. She looks so…drained. And he wonders if it's his fault, if maybe something in the way they didn't touch, didn't glance, something in the way he didn't reach out and take her hand when he was supposed to, was the one thing that brought her here.

Everything is a responsibility now, obligation replaced by prescription, and he's addicted to her. She's a drug and he's following that high everywhere. Anywhere. How much would he give for that skin to survive; who would he kill to complete her curves? It's not a question he can ask without feeling immediate guilt.

He glances at the clock and realizes another woman is in need of him, for some reason he cannot fathom, by some choice he didn't want to make.

"Captain…"

Cragen turns, giving one half of the infamous duo a confused look. "Something up, Stabler?"

"I have an appointment that's just come up. Something with the kids, I think."

"You think you'll be back today?"

"I don't know." He bites his lip. "Probably not."

"Fine. Don't forget the rest of your paperwork for Thursday." He turns back to the window, watching the place where the Bates have convened, where Olivia sits still and sound with coffee-flavored speech summoning their attention.

Elliot gives her a final look, but he is invisible to her now, behind that great glass wall where shame is bared and riddles are spun and something very dark sometimes sits. He fears for her for a moment, seeing her sitting among all the filth and grime of past crimes and past hates. He wants to grab her for a moment, take her out into the air where the city lifts them, letting them soar until they melt into the atmosphere. He'd like to melt with her someday.

He steps toward the door, thinking about it.

…

She is starting to get sick of it when there is a miracle. A god damned miracle.

"It was the family's decision to go through with it, Miss Benson." Mr. Bates says quietly, giving her a small look, as though to reassure her of his sanity. "That's what you wanted to hear, wasn't it?"

She blinks. "Go through with what?"

"Killing Jonathan."

"You decided to kill your son?" No fucking way.

"Yes. It was necessary." His voice is calm, his features collected, the only thing out of place the smug coolness in his eyes.

She turns to the window where she knows her partner and captain must stand, mouthing for them to bring Katrina in. She assumes they have noticed and turns back to the Bates patriarch. Or perhaps better, the Godfather.

"And how did you kill him?"

"That I cannot disclose, of course." He smiles calmly at her, barely missing a beat. "You'll want to know about the weapons next, I assume. Once you have the final evidence, you'll convict me, won't you? But you need a confession. Well, I never killed him, and I never said I killed him, and therefore this is no confession."

"But you said--"

"I said the family decided to. I never said we went through with it."

"But you did say you decided on killing him. And Jonathan's dead. So any fool can put two and two together to get the basic point, Mr. Bates."

"Fools are not often in court, Detective, so somehow I cannot feel worried one will be trying me and thus putting 'basic points' into play, as you call them."

"Well, at least you understand the capability of our ADA."

He shrugs, a cold smile appearing. "I understand you still don't have what you want."

"But you certainly love to dangle it in front of me like a big juicy steak, don't you?" She tries very hard not to jump across the table and knock him out with her fists.

"I'm not enjoying this, no. Sitting here as though I am a charged criminal is certainly little fun."

"Well, give me five minutes and you won't just feel like one."

"I'm sure I won't. My lawyer will arrange a bargain, I will give my confession, and we can be done with this." Beside him, his lawyer stirs into action, Casey following suit as she enters.

"Well, that was surprisingly easy." The redhead sits across from the balding but regal head of the Bates family, her eyes falling onto his lawyer, grinning triumphantly in his thousand dollar suit. "So what kind of offer are you expecting me to agree to?"

"15 years tops, set the bail at 3 thousand."

"You're kidding." She raises an eyebrow. "I have better things to do today, Mr. Allen, and your client is not one of my top priorities. Make me a realistic offer and maybe I'll think about the deal."

"15 years, raise the bail."

She gives him a warning look, glaring impatiently. "Rich man sentences don't go over very well with me or the court. And I don't really think you're in the position for that kind of bargaining as is."

"My client is going to confess to contriving the murder of his son. What better bargaining piece should I be looking for?"

"Contriving is not actually killing, is it? Murderers and weapons have always been better bits on the table in my opinion."

Olivia glances at the window, wondering if Katrina Bates is here to hear this, wondering if the truth is breaking her as fast as it's uplifting Olivia.

A pounding on the door says yes.

Olivia motions for her to enter. And the storm breaks.

"How could you?" Katrina screams, and part of her must be breaking somewhere inside, because her voice almost bleeds. "How could you kill Jonathan?" She weeps too, tears free flowing and desperate and almost pitiful. "He was…he was the only good one, how could you kill him?"

"He would have understood." The man is still and calm, his body not even tensing under the scrutiny of screams his daughter cries out before him. Yet in his eyes there is a sort of acceptance, as though he has been preparing for this moment and does not mind performing accordingly. "Jonathan believed in the purpose of the family, the honor. He would have understood why it had to be done."

"Nothing justifies killing him!" She throws herself onto the table; hands reach to pull her back and two cops are pulling on her, her hair flipping forward, her chest heaving dramatically. Her face is wet and red, and yet her eyes scream for vengeance. "I don't know why I tried to win you back! I don't know why I ever believed you would accept me!"

"You were not your brother."

"That's right. I'm still alive, aren't I?" She spits onto his cheek, and there is a silence. She seems to collapse, and then is pulled away, giving in to the will of her captors, her eyes still remaining on the man who spawned her, the demon of her childhood, of her adulthood, of her long and horrid life.

Mr. Bates turns to her when his daughter is removed, when the door finally shuts and silence secures them.

"I arranged for the murder of my son, and I have the names of the ones I hired."

And it is done.

…

He steps into the restaurant and his eyes have to adjust to the low lights, the hostess barely visible when she draws near to him.

"I'm meeting someone." He says quickly, and he sees her suddenly in the back of the room, candle illuminating her features, sharpened and then softened by the flickering glow.

He makes his way through couples and hands that are joined across the table, warm glances from one partner to another. He can't stand it, and yet he can, because something about her justifies it. He has shared enough years with this woman to look back tenderly on most of it. Children and kisses and long afternoons and busy nights… he's not supposed to just forget it, right?

But he can't have this and have Olivia at the same time. It doesn't seem plausible. So he has to shove the old memories aside in place of a more sensible emotion, and he's impassive when he takes his seat across from her, almost frowning at the look in her eyes.

"I didn't know if you'd come…" She says tentatively, eyeing him strangely, as though she is afraid he will suddenly take off again. As though she needs to convince him that she means well.

He can't tell. It is frustrating, and it bothers him, and jesus, he shouldn't be here.

"Traffic." He says gruffly, taking the menu into his hands and not sure what to do with it. Order? Get a drink? How long is this going to take?

"Did you take the Ford here? It…um…it's been stalling lately."

"Yeah, I noticed." They're still sharing the one car, since he needs the other for work and she can't get another for a while. He didn't agree to that. "It always was a shitty car."

"That's why I told you not to buy it, remember?" She smiles slightly, still staring at him even as he avoids her eye. "But you said you didn't want a Jetta because German cars were…what did you say again?"

"Bad reliability."

"That's not what you said, though."

He remembers, and it is a bit warmer in here. "I think I called it a Nazi car."

She laughs lightly, though there is something guarded in her tone, in her small smile. He doesn't care, because he doesn't want to see what she's feeling now; he's afraid of it, really. "You were always harsh about foreign cars."

"There was nothing wrong with that Chevy I had for nine years. And yet the old Volvo lasted us two months."

"You had that Chevy in high school. Everyone's biased toward their high school car." And there is something in her voice, and he knows she wants a good reply this time.

"Yeah." And there is nothing more to say, because he knows it was also the car they had sex in for the first time, the car she left her gum wrappers in and hid her father's beer in for the weekends. There is nothing more to say on the topic of that car.

She detects the noticeable pause in his conversation and turns the discussion to something else. "Dickie got the science award in his class."

"When?"

"Last week. There's a ceremony next Thursday night, if you can make it."

He hides a wide grin, thinking about the twins, thinking about the futures they were carving. Someday they'd be somewhere above him, and he'd have to look up to see them walking in the sky, dreams all around them. Their mother is seated across from him, and she notes the smile.

"They're amazing, aren't they? I mean, if I'd known back then what they'd be now…"

"Back when?"

"Back when we were…um…when things were normal. I just feel like I didn't…didn't give them enough time, you know?" She tries for a sympathetic smile, but he ignores it.

He wonders what she means by normal. He suddenly realizes she regrets the separation, and he is speechless.

She tries to continue. "Have you talked to the girls lately?" She gives it no subtle intendment. He is thankful.

He nods slowly. They are a product of this union, too. "Last Monday. Kathleen's coming over for dinner this weekend."

"Tell her to stop in."

He orders a drink, but Kathy asks for wine. He is left awkwardly sipping his now when Kathy finally gets to the point. And he is speechless again.

"It was a mistake, Elliot." She says it slowly, and he can't be sure at first if it really is all coming out, if she is really saying what he dreads to hear. "We jumped at it too soon; we hardly even talked about it. And now I…I feel like we're worse than where we were before."

"It has to be…different at first." He says quietly, staring at his glass of wine. "It's not supposed to feel perfect."

"But is it supposed to feel this wrong?" Her face is caught in the flame for a moment, reflections of light casting unfamiliar shadows on her face. He finally meets her eyes and recognizes the once mysterious expression as desperation. He is surprised, because he has never seen Kathy past her limits before. And past them she certainly is. "I don't want the divorce. I don't want the separation. I want…I want everything back to normal."

He grits his teeth, biting his lip at the same time. "Taking it back to the way it used to be isn't going to make anything better."

"You don't know that."

"You're making it sound like there was no reason for separating in the first place."

"Maybe…maybe there wasn't. We have tempers, Elliot. We always have. But we get over fights and we get over problems and…it just seems we didn't spend enough time working this out."

He pities her for a moment, pities her for this pit into which she has crawled, seeing the dirt under her fingernails and clouding her eyes where she has tried again and again to climb out. Yet he can't turn around, not even for her sake, not even for four children and so many years and kisses under the stars and sleeping in the same bed and holding hands and sharing meals and looking into those eyes and seeing your own reflection fully realized.

"I can't go back, Kathy."

"You don't feel…"

He shakes his head, watching the light drain from her eyes as she stares breathlessly at him.

"I'm an idiot." She stands up, shoving her chair in with a resolute shove, striding away from the table.

"Kathy!" He has to stand up and go after her. Years of union require it.

He catches her at the door, grabbing her arm and pulling her away from the street where her car must be waiting.

"Kathy, you have to understand--"

"No, I do." Her voice is not cold or angry, but it is dark and unwilling to go on. She's really on her last leg. He has brought her there. He feels it and sees it and he knows he owes her this. Yet she continues and he cannot stop her. Perhaps this is how he will repay her. "I know you're in another relationship, I know you're involved. I'm not asking you to give it up, I wouldn't do that."

"It's…it's serious, Kathy. And she…she isn't the sort of person that…it hasn't been easy either." He can't continue, really.

"Oh jesus, Elliot, it's not like I don't know who it is! I talk to our daughters you know, and they're rather acute." She's exasperated and perhaps irritated, but she's not angry. "Olivia's…she's…I've known her for a long time. I trust her. I just didn't really expect--"

"I don't really care." He snaps. It was coming. "Do you think I'd leave her, Kathy? After everything we've been through--"

Her eyes flare red. "Right, because four healthy children don't matter against one miscarriage--"

He slaps her. He can't believe he's done it but by the time it is over the silence is welcome. He is breathing heavily, his hand still erect and outstretched before him, she still and amazed, her fingers pressed to her cheek as she stares in shock.

And then she begins to cry.

It is the kind of crying which shakes a body, which stirs a body, which brings it down so that its knees must collide with the earth. He has to catch her before she falls, and yet she holds herself up, not letting such a kind of weeping destroy her.

"I'm sorry," She says quickly, before the tears can stop her. "That was uncalled for… I had no right--"

"It's fine." It isn't entirely, but he knows she no longer means everything she says. Impulse outweighs intensity in her dying mind.

"No, I really am. It wasn't right. I just…" She takes a deep breath, standing alone now. "It's been hard lately, Elliot. I'm trying to figure out what it's supposed to be like, but nothing seems right anymore. You have problems in a marriage so you end it, and you think everything turns out fine. But…it takes a while, right? You don't feel better…you just hurt."

"We can't go back, Kathy. It doesn't work like that."

"But you hurt sometimes, don't you? You miss it sometimes. You must."

He shrugs. "I don't know…"

"Please don't tell me all those years were a waste."

"No, they weren't a waste." He takes her hand, holding it between his own. "We have four beautiful children, and we have lots of memories. That's what you should take with you."

"When everything else is bad, I have to fall back on that. And then I want that. And then none of it seems worth it." She stares at the ground, the end of her thumb in her teeth. "You don't know what it feels like to be…worthless."

"You shouldn't tell yourself that. You're not."

"It doesn't matter." She glances over her shoulder, and then at her watch. "I have to get home and start dinner. I, um…I'm sorry I dragged you out here for this."

"It's fine." It really isn't, but he can't argue now. "You can…we, uh…if you need to talk again, we can."

"Oh." She stares at him, and something opens in her. "Thanks, I…I guess I'll go now."

And she's gone.

…

She arrives at his house and she nearly collapses on the sofa, everything a rush of blood to the head and everything something she has to feel. Why can't it all pass over her? Why can't they leave her behind for a while?

The door opens a few minutes later, just as she is dozing off, and he walks in, a strange expression on his face.

"Where were you this afternoon?"

"Appointment." He says roughly, setting down some groceries on the counter. His keys jangle and then are silenced against the stone of the table, cold as his eyes for a moment.

"Oh." She glances over at his back, removing his jacket, strong shoulders flexing and rippling under a familiar shirt. "You probably heard about the case."

"The Bates case?"

"Yeah, it's over."

"Really?"

She frowns at the lack of excitement in his voice. She had expected a cry of joy, a jump, a wide grin, a bottle of champagne, a something. "Yeah, Jonathan's father killed him. He gave us a full confession, and the names of the people he hired. Everything, just for a high bail."

"I'm not surprised."

"You're kidding." She raises an eyebrow. Where is her Elliot in this complicated figure, this stranger in her lover's clothes who wanders like a waif across her kitchen, barely glancing up without something moving strangely across his features, like a shadow over his emotions. "Why didn't you suggest it before?"

"Didn't come to mind." He shrugs, taking the seat across from her and slumping slightly. She lowers her jaw, glaring impatiently at him.

"Didn't come to mind? Since when have you been this nonchalant about casework?"

"Since we hit something this hard, now calm down." His voice rises slightly and she is taken aback, almost insulted by his attitude. Why is he so cold?

"I'm not angry." She says defensively, sitting up where she has strewn herself across the couch. "I was just surprised you hadn't mentioned it before. It doesn't matter now, though. The whole thing is closed, thank god." She stands up, attempting to lighten the mood with a smile in his direction. "How about a glass of champagne to celebrate? And if that doesn't work, there's some vodka in the cabinet under the--"

"No, that's fine."

She sinks back onto the couch, defeated. "Oh, alright." She stares at him, trying to fix herself in his mind, trying to find him where he is lost among his own questions, or whatever it is he now wanders among. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm just…probably coming down with something."

"Was it a doctor's appointment?"

"Was what?"

"Your appointment this afternoon. Was it a doctor's appointment? You should see one if you're coming down with something, if only to spare me."

"No, it wasn't."

"What was it then?" Suspicion overrides sensibility, and she can't help it anymore. His coldness points her past simple relief, and she wants to dig under the skin all of a sudden, possessed by innate curiosity and the need to warm him again.

He pauses before responding, and it's noticeable only to her, who is so used to his patterns of speech already.

"I had to meet with some people about the finances on the house."

She can buy it. She wants to buy it. She wants so desperately to buy it. And yet something else eats at her and she has lost that trust, and it hurts.

"That sounds exciting." She's as sarcastic as she can be, but humor is failing right now.

"Well, it was." He turns on the television. She has never been replaced by the television before.

She leaves him now, as it is the only things she can do before losing it. She takes his jacket off of the chair in the kitchen, bringing it down the hall to the closet, ready to hang it up. His bedroom is dark but for the flashing red light of the answering machine, beckoning to her suddenly. She goes to it and presses the button, and nearly falls onto the bed when the first voice pierces the silence.

"Elliot, it's me. Kathy. I just had to…I'm trying to call you, just to talk. After what happened this afternoon, I know I need to figure things out, but I can't do it alone. I know you can help me. I really need you right now, Elliot. I need you a lot. You know I'm not one to beg, but after this afternoon you have to see how desperate I am. Please Elliot. Don't leave me like this. I really need someone right now, and you've always been that person. You still are. I…I'll see you soon."

The cold beep of a machine.

And then silence.

She leans back, falls back, disappears into the bedspread. She would cry, or scream. She would throw herself out the window if she could. Yet something holds her in its arms, nearly crushing her under the weight of betrayal.

He lied. He lied. He lied.

And she needs him. Not Olivia. Kathy. Kathy needs him. Wants him. He said he'd help her. They're figuring things out. Figuring what out? It didn't sound like divorce papers. Why hadn't he told her? And somehow…somehow he could lie about it, and treat her like that. When all along she hadn't realized…he wasn't going to stay now, was he?

It had gone too far. It was going too far. She had to stop.

She loved him, yes. But he didn't love her. Couldn't love her. It was all wrong. God, why was it so wrong?

All of a sudden she knew what she had to do. All of a sudden it had hit her and it fit into place and horrible as it was, she had to. Why should she stay and complicate things? He was heading back to Kathy, he was lying to her, he was ignoring her. Why hadn't she seen it before?

It was over. It killed her. But it was over.

…

He stirred in the chair, sunlight causing him to blink as he looked over the television set and into the sun.

Shit.

He sat up, knowing he was late, knowing it had to be after eight. The clock confirmed it was after eleven. How the hell had he slept that late, and in a chair no less?

He'd been exhausted. Who wouldn't be? But why hadn't she woken him up when it was time to go?

Liv. Her name was dry on his tongue.

"Liv!" He called for her, and yet no response. Her keys weren't on the counter, and when he started looking around the room, her things were gone as well. He went to his drawers, impulse setting in like a hellish nightmare. Everything was gone. She'd taken everything she owned, leaving only his lonely things.

He got to his car, he dialed his cell, he bit his lip.

"We're sorry, but this phone is no longer in service."

No.

Not this.

Her apartment. He drove all the way to her building, his breath already rushed, his heart already pounding. She had to be here. This was insane. She couldn't have…just…left…no.

He buzzed, but no answer. Fuck it, he had a key. Staircases zooming. Harsh breaths, heavy sounds. And then…

Empty.

No.

No.

No.

It couldn't.

It hadn't.

But he had.

And she had.

So she left.

Hell was his home now. And the house he returned to was cold and unfriendly and marred by decisions he hated making.

She must have left something. Anything. Yet his own house seemed bare.

The light flashed noiselessly on the answering machine. He stepped tentatively towards it, lightly touching the button as though it would hurt him.

Elliot. It's me.

I'm sorry, Elliot. Some things…some things are heavier than others. I…I got the message from Kathy. I understand now where you were yesterday. I'm not…I'm not really angry, Elliot. I'm just…sad.

I need a break from this for a while. I think you do too. I don't think…I don't…I don't know where I'm going. I've already talked to Cragen.

Maybe it's the job. I don't know…

I didn't want to give up on you, Elliot. I didn't want to leave you. But it feels like I didn't have a choice in the matter. If you want your old life back, I give it to you now willingly. I want to see you happy, and if that's what it takes, then I want you to have it. Please don't be sad on my account.

I don't know if I'm coming back. Please don't count on me.

I'm sorry. I really…I really love you. But…

Things are different now, and I finally understand that. I used to think we couldn't go back to the past, but I have figured out that if you want it badly enough, anything's possible. If you want that life again, take it. I can't go back. I can only go forward now. So that's what I'm doing.

Goodbye Elliot. I…you…thank you.

So it was gone. She was gone.

He cried.

And somewhere, a curtain closed.