A/N Again I am so blown away that anyone takes the time to comment or send kudos, it mean so much.

For the last chapter I should have thanked the lovely Amilyn for Americanising some of my spelling and phraseology, some I just refused cos I'm stubborn and anglo, and even more important than corrections was the fabulous conversation about the story and more...I only forgot the 'thank you' because she did it a whole year before I got off my ass and posted it, so in lieu of a proper thank you on the last chapter, I dedicate this one to Amilyn.

CASSIDY

The apartment is warm and welcoming. And despite, quite possibly, being the strangest situation I have ever been in, the quick meal is not as uncomfortable as I would have imagined…. Or maybe I'm just too out-of-it to notice?

I can't help a small smile at this self awareness, and the odd setup…..

She doesn't ask any questions, doesn't pressure me in any way, just allows our years of friendship to silently bridge the gap as she leads me to the promised spare room. In typical Liv fashion there are towels and some toiletries on the bed, the door to the bathroom is open and she just points at it "the bathroom is shared with Noah's room on the other side, so be sure to lock it". She rolls her eyes, no doubt considering the many times she has made this mistake herself, and pulls the door closed, with a gentle goodnight and a soft, but heartfelt, reminder she is here for me.

Despite knowing she wouldn't pressure me once she knew I was safe, even before Barba's assurances, I can't help a relieved sigh, as I drop onto the bed in peace.

I can't believe that, somehow, I've just been confronted by yet another ghost from my past, another secret I had thought in my control, another truth I had thought hidden from all, including myself.

And with those thoughts, the comforting soup doesn't seem quite so secure in my stomach, when I begin to consider the day's events.

I know it is a stupid psychological thing, but I suddenly, desperately, need to clean my teeth, and am so grateful for the foresight of Liv leaving a toothbrush. I try not to concentrate on it just being yet another 'victim behaviour', that of course an SVU cop would pre-empt.

I shuffle exhaustedly into the sink, ripping the toothbrush from its packaging and scrub my mouth and teeth until my gums are sore, then reload the brush with even more toothpaste. Half the small container of mouthwash still isn't enough to swill out the sour taste that remains, but I know there is nothing that can actually banish it, so with a longing look at the shower, I close my door and guiltily slide the lock across. I don't want to scare the kid if he wanders in here….. I tell myself, I'm just doing as Liv suggested…it's nothing else….

I throw the unused large towel onto the seat in the corner of the room, refusing to fall into that stereotype….after all, nothing actually happened to me tonight….nothing has happened in years…decades even….like with the teeth cleaning, the dirt that clings to me now, isn't something that can be washed away.

I unlace my boots, pulling them off to stand side by side alongside the bed, so unlike my usual method of carelessly kicking them off and letting them lie where they fall, that for a second it seems remarkable.

I shrug off the oddity, undoing my belt and jeans, but choosing to tug my sweater over my head before pulling the denim down my legs. It feels strange. Not undressing… but doing it here, in the room beside her sleeping son's, down the hall from her. Again, I go against the habit of a lifetime and fold the denim and wool sloppily on the chair, before diving under the covers.

As I try to settle into the comfortable bed, I hear the sounds of them turning in for the night, gentle, everyday sounds, only noticeable by my heightened attention.

Great! So now I get to think about him sharing her bed!

Well at least I don't have to worry about inappropriate physical reactions, with that idea floating around my head! Now it's my brain in desperate need of bleach, and not my filthy body.

I could never say it out loud, but over the past year I have kinda….come to terms…..maybe….with the… dirty feeling. At least I think I understand it…

What was left behind, when he was done….was like a crime scene. And as with any bloody shooting, something my work has made me all too familiar with; the stains, the subtle markers of violence, are impossible to ever truly, totally, remove. In a shooting, there's bloodthat can be scrubbed and covered in flooring, but as forensics have proven, it is never GONE. There are grooves, holes, bullet impact marks, that can be filled, sanded, hidden….but where the bullets hit, is no longer the same. The metal gouges out a piece of anything it collides with, literally leaving a cavity in its wake.

What is left behind is changed even more than by the marks and evidence left behind, it is haunted by a story, a history, that even whilst faded, can never be deleted…."that's where he was shot…". The value of anything effected by the crime is lowered, whether directly damaged or just there, it's no longer worth what it once was…like the once beautiful crime scene apartment going for well below market value because of its grisly story.

I am the same.

There may be no direct scars…but there are markers everywhere. It sometimes feels like the crime scene tape around this crime, was never taken down, like it was forgotten and it's still there, 'hiding' the scene by just keeping everyone away, building an accidental memorial through isolation, to something I have fought to forget…

There's no broken door lock, no busted window, to prove forced entry, but the sense of having been trespassed upon is no less real. There are no bullet scars, not from him, they were honestly earned, 'in the line' injuries to maybe, one day, brag about…but the violation is no less. That sense of having been invaded, can be hidden, covered up with superficial repairs and redirection, but it's always there, somewhere in the background, all too easy to unmask, ready to infect everything near it with its grimy past.

It's just what is left when you have become a walking, breathing, crime scene…even if the crime went unreported: you are still left with that sense of dirty pollution.

I know how lucky I am, I don't have scars, nothing visible for people to question….not like the woman down the hall. Her skin was littered with marks; some slowly healed into oblivion, others lightened to silver lines, some merely lighter pink versions of the red originals….but I wonder about the scars that were never visible.

I know the man that shares her bed, her life, has gone a long way towards healing them, I can see it so clearly when she tries to share her horror, to pull me into a conversation she thinks could help.

How can she not see that she gained her last round of scars, defending a kid….fighting for something…..whereas I sat silently back and allowed other kids to be hurt….I quietly enabled their abuse?

I am partly responsible, both for what was done to Micah, and the effect it had on him a decade later…that led him to take his own life.

Lying here, safe, in this bed, it still takes every coping strategy I have learned in the last months, to fight off the panic and despair warring to overwhelm me. I breathe slowly, deeply, concentrating on each action. I engage with my surroundings, consciously feeling the textures of the bedding, my t-shirt, my boxers. I move my limbs, carefully curling my fingers, tensing my calf muscles, rotating my shoulders. I slowly confirm that the room is empty, save for me, there are no threats hiding in dark corners.

I have learned not to jump up and run around, panic fuelled… the "adrenaline may temporarily chase away the fear, but the anxiety is much longer lasting. The symptoms are not addressed, the need not satisfied"…. Like a fast food burger, when you're hungry, it holds you over, rather than feeding your body the stuff it needs. Ok, the last bit may be my words rather than 'Dr. Do-Good'…but it's what I thought of; that shit, paper wrapped, couple of bites that gives you another hour to get some actual food….and yes he did say it that many times that I memorised it, when I realised there may be something to his ramblings.

God I'm so old! When did that happen? I used to love shitty fast food…

The counselor, I refuse to call him mycounselor, that McCoy set me up with, suggested staying still and concentrating on the feelings when we once discussed me feeling 'jumpy'… I told him it was one of my 'symptoms' after the shooting. It felt sensible, who wouldn't feel 'jumpy' when they were shot a couple times in the chest by a rookie cop after ID-ing as a cop.

As I came to trust his advice, I started to be a little more open, telling him things I actually felt, and not just playing him, saying the stuff you are meant to say…even if I never told him the real cause. Trauma is trauma, right? I thought he was crazy, I even told him so, before I could stop my mouth, when he said 'feel the feelings but allow your body to know it's safe'. So the next time I felt like my skin was trying to crawl off my body, I did as suggested, more from desperation than true belief, and surprisingly felt better. I guess it was a big turning point…even if it's stupid…I started to actually learn from the dude who drove me crazy with his unnaturally soft voice, his fortune cookie wisdom, and his constant 'how does that make you feel' questions. I would still kill to hear him call me a prick, or just say 'that's bullshit!' like I reckon he does in his head. I guess I tolerate him now cos I call the different looks he gives me the 'that's bullshit look' or the 'you're such a prick look'. Maybe you get kicked out of the therapist club if you actually say the stuff you're thinking?

It still feels silly, to lie here, giving in to the craziness I know is only in my mind… but I know I will feel better, from hard-won experience.

As I calm, I can feel the last hours lapping gently at the edges of the island I have lived my life on. I have only ever occupied a tiny part of myself, keeping so much away that I started calling it my very own island… Again, it was because of something 'Dr. Do-Good' said about hiding away on an island, keeping the world at bay…most definitely not what he intended for me to take from the session, but then again, there was a lot he didn't know….. But this is not the time or place to try and untangle any of the day's events.

I am exhausted but there is no way I am going to sleep. I refuse to awaken to a full blown panic attack in her home.

So I do the best thing I possibly can, in the circumstances….I consider what I could do to help Barba make a case against someone I should have stopped years ago.

Now I have a focus, a task to complete, the controlled breaths work quickly as I reach for my phone.

It is only 5am when I hear the soft noise of someone moving quietly around. I can't tell, at first, whether Barba is an early riser, or Liv has been called to a scene.

I don't move, wanting to put off facing either of them for another hour, maybe even two….

When I hear a quiet thunk, followed by what could only be the front door closing and being locked, I assume the thunk was Liv retrieving her gun from the safe I know she must have, with a child in the house, and leaving to respond to a call out.

I'm grateful not to have to face her, immediately. I know she won't allow me to escape entirely, but even a short respite gives me the chance to try and fix the mess I created.

By the time I hear another person moving about the apartment it is after 6am, and I know it can only be Barba. I want to pretend to be sleeping, pretty confident that he will not intrude on my privacy if I stay cocooned in bed, but I need to put my plan of the last couple of hours, into action. And I need to start to face up to the reality of the situation…..my reality.

Once more brushing my teeth, before throwing on last night's clothes, I find that as much as I am dreading the day, what needs to be done, and even the coming awkwardness….the man I will be facing, doesn't terrify me as much as he perhaps should.

When I am sure he has moved to the kitchen, I run a hand through my hair, take a deep breath and take the initiative to join him, feeling less like a man walking to a firing squad than I expected.

"Mornin" I push out softly, to announce my presence, studying the floor to avoid meeting his eye.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, he is busy sipping coffee. Had I considered what Barba was like in the morning, before his suits, before he faces the day, surely I would have struggled to create the picture of the man in front of me. He looks tired, and I feel a sharp stab of guilt for that, his hair is sticking up as he carelessly cards a hand through it, he is barefoot, in a pair of sleep pants and a t-shirt, and I find his uncaring, dishevelled appearance comforting. He is not putting on a performance for me, as if he is consciously modelling the same openness he had last night.

"Coffee!" is the only word he throws at me, with a light gesture towards the machine, in invitation.

If Liv had been here she would have served me, it is such a tiny difference, almost ridiculous to even care about, but it makes a huge difference to me. I feel less…helpless…less uncomfortable.

I grab a cup from beside the machine and press a button, hoping it just dispenses my drink and I don't have to ask for his help. Why am I not surprised Barba has a machine that wouldn't look out of place in a fancy, expensive cafe?

Thankfully, a rich brown liquid pours into my cup as I find the man leaning against the breakfast bar wiggling his now, empty cup, at me in silent request.

I can't help a soft chuckle as I replace my cup under the nozzle with his, and hit the button again.

It's particularly good coffee, but I find there is no way in hell I'm telling Mr. Snooty that, as he takes repossession of his filled cup.

The second cup seems to awaken the man to 'functioning', and I catch him looking at me in the early morning quiet. The silence is neither comfortable or uncomfortable, as we both stand sipping from plain mugs in his kitchen, and neither of us seems eager to break it.

"I've been going through the social media pages… some of these kids I played youth league with….there's a few boys there…this guy… Dolan….may have targeted…"

Despite the words coming from my mouth, I'm surprised to be the one to speak first, even if my eyes never leave the floor as they slip out.

Again the man surprises me, he nods to confirm he is listening when my eyes flick up to him, but he continues to sip at his cup, allowing his gaze to travel back and forward between the coffee and me.

I don't know where the bravery comes from, but I copy the way he looks to me, carefully not staring….

"Can I ask you a question, Barba, if something happened …back then….I mean it's too late to prosecute now…right?"

"I could still use them as 'prior bad acts witnesses' in Micah's case. Can we reach out to them?"

He is all earnest lawyer as he shares his intentions for the case. He doesn't attempt to change the conversation, or control it, merely grabs the opportunity I offer. And for a second I can hope that last night hasn't changed everything.

"It's not something you wanna approach over a telephone…. One of the guys lives in Connecticut, one guy lives in Providence….feel like taking a road trip with me?"

He readily accepts the need for in person meetings, and seems to understand, on some level, the grenade we will be throwing into their lives. He reaches for the phone once abandoned on the counter top in place of coffee, now their importance is shared, one hand calling up the calendar while the other still cradles his caffeine.

"Later this afternoon?" is barked at me as he starts tapping on the screen.

I nod gratefully, gulping down the remainder of my cup and place it by the sink, beside the bowls from last night, happy to feel something has been accomplished.

Before I can leave the kitchen for my coat and the front door, I hear "Cassidy?".

I knew it was probably too easy, and I'm sure he can see my dread, as my body involuntarily braces, my back rigid.

"Liv was called out about 5am…"

It seems like an odd thing to say but I guess he is trying to explain her absence in case I think it is deliberate or voluntary. I nod, not relaxing as the man before me is too unpredictable, to relax quite yet.

He doesn't speak further but the question on his mind is so clear there is no need. Once, I would have fought him at every step, made him ask me where I am going, what my plans are…but I guess he has earned some sort of trust….so I half turn back to him.

"Nah Barba, I'm not going back there….well just picking up my car… And I'm guessing I'm not getting my gun back?"

He can't help the eye roll and scowl, and it gives me such a sense of satisfaction I feel childish, despite the incredibly serious conversation in progress.

"No!" is his emphatic answer to my question, I never really expected anything else. "And we're not done with that…"

I know he means a lot more than the gun, or the late night visit…..

"Yeah…. I guessed…I'm gonna go home, shower, change, do a bit of digging…"

He doesn't agree immediately, seemingly searching my face for any signs of 'other intentions' before I crack and quietly assure him with a difficult truth.

"Seriously…I want to get him, Barba….properly…."

This seems to appease his concerns much more.

I turn towards the door once more.

"I didn't tell her. Check in with Liv? She is worried…."

I know he waited until I wasn't facing him to mention her. He knows she is too sensitive a subject for us to wade into carelessly.

My back still to him, I nod deeply, to be sure that he doesn't miss the gesture. I know I should reassure him, tell him I appreciate his understanding, a million other little things….but I can't.

"Thanks Barba." I state after clearing my throat. "This afternoon so…"

If the man finds it strange that we never agreed a time, or made any real plans, I will never know cos I slip out of his apartment before he can say anything else, but I like to think that a muttered "asshole" was covered by the sound of the door snicking closed behind me.