Hello! Thanks to this long holiday weekend, I finally got the chance to finish this chapter I've been plugging away at for so long. Just hope it's worth the wait! As always, I'm so grateful to you all for putting up with my long absences, and I'm even more grateful to those of you who take the time to comment because your feedback is always appreciated.

A/N: Warnings for mentions of sexual assault, self harm, and suicidal ideation.

This chapter references events discussed in ch. 46 of those graces (only words bleed), in case you need a refresher, but I think it should be pretty self explanatory regardless- I hope.


You said you were done with lying, but that was a lie too.

You lied to Nick when he suggested you tell IAB to go fuck themselves and he'd take you home, assuring him you'd be fine. He nodded silently and then handed you some Kleenex. You hadn't noticed it until you felt something warm and wet on your jacket sleeve, that you had again been scratching at the red mark on your wrist left behind by the handcuffs.

You told your story again to IAB and again you lied, telling them that he just drove the car you commandeered aimlessly for a couple of hours before you finally convinced him to take you to Amelia. No, he didn't hurt you. Tucker seemed skeptical and although he actually knew more than Brian did about what happened to you before, you still wonder what (if anything) your ex might have told him. You hoped Tucker might let you know whether or not he'd been able to pass your message on to wherever Brian is currently, but he just continued his gruff line of questioning until you got to the final act of your story.

"I mean, if I didn't know better, I guess I'd be asking questions too," you admit to Nick on the way home. Although Rita would have a coronary if she knew you were discussing your testimony with a witness, you were past the point of caring. "Not because of the left hand/right hand thing. I still don't understand why...I never took him for the suicidal type."

"Well, he was looking at a bullet in the head one way or another. He just took care of it himself before we could get to him," Nick says, and you're not surprised. You had assumed even then that whether or not you were alive by the time your squad came, the others weren't going to bother making an arrest.

"But it's not like him. He always thought he was going to outsmart everyone else and somehow get away."

"Honestly? I'm pretty sure he knew his time was up before too long even if he didn't get shot." He sees you tilt your head slightly and nods. "Okay. You didn't hear this from me, but Fin let me take a look at the autopsy report he got from Melinda. Lewis wasn't in good shape even before his fake heart attack, and that didn't help. I'm talking multiple organs on the verge of failing."

"Because of me," you say quietly.

"Well, his liver was already pretty fried, and all those drugs took a toll. He wasn't going to live a long healthy life one way or the other." Nick sighs when he sees you looking down at your hands. "Listen. You have nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing."

It's not that you feel guilty. You already knew about the extent of his injuries and you had never even had a moment's remorse over the fact that he might be suffering. If there's anything you regret, it's that you didn't shoot him between the eyes like you had considered doing just so you'd be sure that he was dead. Then it all would've been over. No trial, no one to reveal your secrets, no jail break. Life could've continued on from where it left off, with Elliot kissing you goodbye and promising you'd see him later that evening. But you didn't shoot him, for reasons you still don't entirely understand, and now you're in a worse place than you were before.

"Hey," Nick says gently. "Did you talk to Stabler? You know, about..."

"Um. No."

"Liv..."

"I'm going to." You know Nick was right, that it would devastate Elliot to hear about what happened at the granary through the gossip pipeline, but you're also not sure how much more he can handle right now. "I've gotta find a way...it's been a lot for him already."

"Are you worried about how he'll react? That he'll be mad at you?"

You scoff and shake your head even as you say "He was angry that I went in the first place. If he finds out about this, who knows. He doesn't need the extra stress."

"Would it help if I was there?"

It's not that you're afraid. You can handle his temper, even with your current diminished capacity for bullshit. He yells, you yell back, and scene. It's that you can't stand the idea of bearing even more bad news, breaking his heart all over again when you're supposed to be using the time you have left to heal things between the two of you. Nick's right, though; this isn't going to stay a secret for much longer. "If you want to do it, go right ahead."

He gives you a long sideways look but says nothing until the car is parked and he reaches for his phone. "I told Stabler we'd text him when we were on our way up. Do you want to knock and have him get the door or open it yourself?"

"Knocking is fine." You're embarrassed that they're obviously trying to avoid a repeat of the way you were so startled yesterday by Elliot coming in while you were asleep, but on the other hand- you can't deny that you do feel better having this little bit of control. "You don't really need to walk me up, though, I can do it..."

"Sure you can, but I don't wanna go back to the office and see Amanda getting all moony eyed over Murphy," he huffs, and he won't hear any more argument.

Elliot's waiting in the doorway when you get off the elevator, looking you over carefully. "How'd it go?"

"Fine, I guess. It's over."

You can tell there are a dozen more questions on the tip of his tongue, but he recognizes that you're in no shape for another interrogation. "D'you want some time to decompress?" You give him a grateful nod. "Okay. I'll be out here if you need anything."

"Elliot and I can talk," Nick says, looking at you for permission. You're surprised that he's actually taking your suggestion that you had given half in jest, assuming he'd shut you down right away, and even more surprised that you're giving them your blessing to have a conversation about you without you.

You shut the bedroom door behind you and turn your white noise machine on so that you're not tempted to eavesdrop, shedding your shoes and blazer and lying down on top of the covers. Under normal circumstances, you would be obsessively wondering what was being said about you, but right now all you can think about is what Nick had revealed.

He had been dying.

Having had some recent experience with confronting your own mortality, you know that when you were convinced that the end was near, the only thing on your mind was the people who are important to you. Wondering about your mother, if the same thoughts had gone through her head in her final moments. Wondering if you would be reunited soon. Wishing that you'd have had the chance to thank your squad for being not just coworkers and friends, but a surrogate family. Wondering how Brian would cope and hating that the most functional romantic relationship of your life was going to be cut short by the end of your life. And of course, wishing you could see Elliot just one more time and regretting all that you'd never have together.

This is going to be the last thing you think about before you die. The last thing you see.

And he wanted it that way- for you, maybe, but specifically for himself. He knew the clock had run out and for his final act, he was going to go to whatever lengths he could to have you one last time. If you died alongside him...well, that was simply a bonus.

It's sick, the way no one else in your life has cared about you that much. The people you love just disappear and he's the only one who bothered to say goodbye.

You don't know how long you've been lying there when Elliot knocks on the door. "Can I come in? It's only me."

"Yeah."

"Nick thought that you- I- we- might need some time. But he wanted you to know he'll come right back if you need anything."

"Okay."

You hadn't heard shouting, hadn't heard anything that sounded like Elliot putting another hole in your wall, but you're still surprised when he kneels down on the floor beside your bed and the only visible signs of his emotions are his reddened eyes. He interlocks his fingers and bows his head like you used to see him do before meals at the Stabler house and you wonder if he's praying. "Liv."

"Yeah."

"Thank God. Thank God you're still here. I swear I... thank God he's dead. He can't hurt you again."

Once again you're struck by his choice of words. He can't hurt you again, not he can't hurt you anymore. He understands that it's not over just because someone's lying on a slab in the morgue.

At least, you think. Had anyone come to claim him? From what you had been able to unearth about his past, his mother abandoned him and his father when he was a toddler, and his dad died in prison years ago. No siblings, at least to his knowledge, and he didn't exactly have any friends to speak of. You doubted he even had an emergency contact. In that way, you weren't that different.

You're reminded that Brian is still your next of kin and you'll need to change that. Hopefully, it won't look too suspicious since you can use your breakup as an excuse-

You hear Elliot inhale slowly and then reach for your hand, which you let him take without hesitation. He clasps it between his own with his palms slightly cupped like he's protecting a baby bird, lips barely brushing your fingertips, and there's a rumble low in his throat that you can't quite make into words.

How are you going to do this to him? Make him have to be the one to bury you?

"I wish we could go back to...the other night. How it was then," you admit.

"Yeah. Me too. It- god. It was pretty amazing," he agrees in a gravelly voice. He studies the red slash on your wrist just below your thumb where the handcuffs had cut into your skin, made worse by how you'd been worrying at it with your nails to self-soothe over the past few days, and starts to say something but then stops. "Can, ah. Can I kiss you?"

You nod and he leans down, the Prince Charming to your Sleeping Beauty. Your lips meet and it's like your first kiss, soft and lingering but undemanding. At one time you would've said it was perfect.

But this time you feel nothing.

He gives you a fond, wistful smile and you curl your upper lip in a crude attempt to mimic him. "I think I'll- I'm gonna get showered before bed," you say, unable to stand having him this close anymore. He feels so much, it's all over his face and in the way he moves and speaks and just breathes, and you don't feel anything.

"Okay. Want me to make you something to eat?" he asks as he helps you up, always the optimist, but he doesn't argue when you refuse. "Hey. Liv?"

"Hmm?"

"Just remember that you won. He's gone, wiped off the face of the earth. You don't ever have to worry about him coming back."

You head for the bathroom, dutifully not locking the door behind you, and Elliot's words echo in your head as you step into the tub. He's never coming back. Maybe you had been naive, but him escaping from jail honestly hadn't even been on your top 25 list of worries until it actually happened. You'd had nightmares about it, but then you'd wake up and eventually reassure yourself that he was still behind bars and couldn't get to you. As the trial approached, your sleeping (and waking) anxiety shifted to the fear of him walking free. Once that was over and you were told he would die in prison, you didn't go back to thinking about an escape. Why bother? He was already with you all the time anyway.

It doesn't feel any different now that he's dead, and you know that Dr. Christensen would probably say that's because you're still in shock, but you're not sure about that. You try to concentrate on the thought that he's gone to see if that makes a difference- that you'll never again see him leering at you or feel his disgusting hands on your skin or hear his wicked laugh as he whispers something vile into your ear.

As predicted, it's not helping. If anything, it's the exact opposite. You remember being sprawled out in the tub back in your old apartment, a blast of cold water suddenly raining down on you. How did you get here? Your last memory was of lying in bed, cuffed and mouth taped shut while you listened to him rampage through the living room and wondered what was coming next. He might... hurt you. He might cackle and say just kidding, get dressed. He might decide it was time to play a game and then there's no telling what would happen.

So what did happen? And how did you get into the shower? He must have knocked you out again and then tossed you in here. But before that?

"D. Di- id." Your voice was raw from coughing up the water you'd choked on as you came to, a cruel wakeup call for your parched throat . "What did you."

There's that laugh. "Are you asking if we fucked? Because sweetheart, if I fucked you, you'd remember it. If that's what you want, though-"

But you didn't remember, not for almost nine months. And you still don't know what more you don't know, what may be hidden in the dark recesses of your mind until something suddenly shoves it to the forefront.

didn't want it? are you kidding? you couldn't get enough. all it took was a little speed and I could barely keep up with you. I had to stop for a smoke and you lost your shit, pretty much had your whole hand in your cunt. trying to suck your own tits. it was wild.

You're pretty sure it isn't true. But is that just because you don't want it to be? You don't remember anything like that (and you remember a lot. too much), but who's to say that won't change? Who's to say you won't eventually remember all that and worse?

It doesn't matter because no one will ever find out, you tell yourself. You'll never speak a word of any of it again once your IAB interrogation is over and the only witness is dead. So if-

Wait.

When you remembered beating him in the beach house, you only knew that your memory was correct because it lined up almost exactly with what you read in the transcript of his deposition. When you remembered... what he did to you back at your old apartment, while you were drugged, the only way you knew it was true was that he told you so.

What else don't you remember?

What if you're remembering things that aren't even real?

Up until now, you've trusted your memories whether or not there was a delayed recall. Enough of them had been corroborated by him, and they were consistent in a way that you knew from experience meant that people were telling the truth. But what if you were wrong?

Maybe you only remembered what you want to remember.

Maybe you really did want it after all.

No. You know that's not right. It can't be. But how will you ever be sure? Anything you think you know for certain, anything you remember from this point forward, you'll never really know if it's true or not.

You lean your forehead against the cold tile and you want to scream, as long and as loud as you can as if that could purge all the terror in your heart, but your chest is so tight that nothing more than a whimper comes out. Your knees are trembling and it's just too much, you can't even console yourself by thinking that it won't be much longer because you can't go on for one more minute like this when you could remember something new at any time.

The water is pelting your face with icy droplets, but it's not water any more. It's blood and spit and chunks of brain matter and so much worse and you can't get yourself clean no matter how hard you scrub. For all the time you've spent scratching and picking at your skin, you've managed to contain it to places that were easy to get to and also easy to cover up. You didn't want to give anyone yet another reason to be concerned about you- nobody had seen them but Elliot and Brian, and there was never any use in trying to convince them that you were okay.

Enough. You'd managed to hold back for almost a year, but the urge has gotten too overwhelming and all you can think about is grabbing something sharp and scratching at your face until you draw blood. At least it'll be your blood this time.

"Liv!" Elliot calls urgently, and your hands fly to the wall to support yourself when you realize with a jolt that the voice is coming from inside the bathroom.

You shut the water off and shirk to the far corner of the shower. "What the hell are you doing in here? Get out!"

"I was outside knocking for a couple minutes. I figured you just couldn't hear me but I wanted to check to be sure cause you've been in there a while," he explains, not making any move to pull the curtain aside.

"I'm fine, you can go. Let me finish up and I'll be right out."

"What is there to finish?" he asks. "I know that water's gone cold a long time ago. Look, I'll hand you your towel and then turn around if you want privacy."

You do, not wanting him to see your recent bruises, but that's not all. Your skin's clammy even after being doused in freezing water, and the feeling of invisible streaks of blood oozing down your face is only growing stronger. Your therapist would tell you that it's psychosomatic and you're focusing on physical sensations to avoid the horrors in your mind, and although she's probably right, it still doesn't quell the urge to add to it.

"Here you go," he says, opening the curtain just enough to pass a towel to you. "Bathrobe's on top of the toilet. I'm right here but I'm not looking."

"Will you just leave me the fuck alone?!"

"Come out here and we can talk."

You seethe at his obnoxiously good-natured voice. "I'm not joking around here. Go away."

"No one's joking, but I'm not leaving until I see for myself that you're alright."

You wrap your towel around you securely and yank the curtain aside, ready to prove to him that you're fine. But then you catch sight of yourself in the mirror, disheveled and shivering, your cheek and forehead streaked with blood. What had you done? What had he done? "No...nonono..."

"Liv, hey, let me take a look at that," Elliot says, breaking his promise and turning around when he heard you cry out. "C'mere."

"I didn't do it," you plead weakly, confused and petrified. It wasn't real, you hadn't done anything. Right? It was a thought, a memory. So why, when you look in the mirror...how did that happen?

"I know," he reassures you, his hand cautiously moving toward your face and ghosting over your cheek. "No cuts or scrapes."

"I don't…what happened?" you ask, still dazed. It's a relief to know that you apparently hadn't hurt yourself, but if Elliot can see it, it wasn't all in your imagination either. Oh God. How can he see it? What else does he see?

He takes your hand and you automatically flinch, then mumble a hurried apology, head bowed to hide your embarrassment. "It's okay. I should've asked. I just saw that- this is where the blood's coming from. You must have rubbed your face."

"Oh. Yeah." You forgot about the cut from the handcuffs on the back of your wrist, even though you'd caught yourself picking and scratching at it all day. When you try to pull away, he stops you.

"Sit down, let me take care of this. You don't want it to get infected," he warns, as if this would be novel or even the worst thing that could happen to you at this point. You protest but he's not having it. "How many times have you patched me up over the years? Now it's my turn."

You sit down on the closed toilet seat as he retrieves your oft-used first aid kit from under the sink, trying to get your ragged breathing under control. Everything's okay. Just let him do this. You'll be fine. Wordlessly, you offer him your wrist and look away while he gets to work. "Handcuffs."

"Hmm?"

"He had me cuffed. That's how I..."

He nods, looking solemn as he finishes bandaging. "That too tight?"

"No." You want to explain to him what's going on in your head, your panic at realizing you can no longer trust your own mind, but you know that you can't. Doing so would mean confessing too many things that you'll never be ready to talk about, too many things you don't want to leave for him to turn over and over in his head when you're gone, but you can give him this much. "When- the blood went all over my face and I couldn't wash up until they got pics at the hospital. Now it feels like... like I can't get it off."

"Shit, Liv." He sits back on his heels, hand scrubbing over his jawline in the way that you know means he's thinking something through. "I've got an idea. Will you let me try?"

"Uh," you hum warily while he stands up.

"Go get changed, get comfortable, and go lie down while I get ready, okay?" he asks, nudging you toward the door. "Trust me, it'll be alright. If you want me to stop I will."

You're wholly unconvinced about the merits of this 'idea', but you do as told and reach for the pajamas he's already laid out for you at the foot of the bed. Letting him feel like he's helping you is important, just like talking to him is important, because you don't want to leave him tortured with the thought that there was something that he missed or something more that he could have done to save you. There isn't such a thing, but you know he'll think that there was and he'll shoulder the weight of the guilt the way that he always does. Again you hate that you can't explain everything to him first and you're left hoping that he'll trust that you had good reasons and a good reason why you couldn't tell him it all. You want him to remember you in the way he sees you now, without the ugly truth replaying in his head.

You lie down as instructed and he comes back into the bedroom carrying a big bowl and one of your softest washcloths. "I'm only gonna touch your face, okay? Nothing else. Just close your eyes and relax."

You're still skeptical until you feel the warm wet cloth on the top of your forehead, his pointer and middle fingers drawing tiny slow circles at your hairline. Oh. That actually feels really good. He keeps going, down past your temple and then following the curve of your jaw, and the gentle motion is so much more soothing than you would have expected. You're not used to this amount of focused physical attention without it being something sexual- even your mother wasn't ever particularly affectionate save for a cursory peck on the cheek as she sent you off to bed unncessarily early so that she could drink in peace- and so to this day it's still a little strange to you. But it's a good strange, not a bad strange, and as long as you keep your eyes closed you're able to focus on the sensation and let it flow through the rest of your body until you feel like you're melting into the mattress. Your thoughts start floating away too, like you're distantly aware that something's troubling you but you can't articulate what or why.

He pokes the tip of your nose gently when he's finished, and you look up at him with a lazy smile. "Falling asleep?"

"Mmm. Maybe."

"Good, you need it." When you halfheartedly point out that it's on the early side for bedtime, he stands firm. "Get some rest while you can. Should I go?"

You shake your head, but hesitate. "You're probably not tired."

"You would be wrong," he says, and you're unsure if he's telling the truth but too drowsy to argue as he lies down beside you, arm extended for you to curl up to. It's been a long time since you've felt this relaxed and even longer since you were able to calm your mind like this without drinking. Again it's strange, but not in a bad way. In a way that you could maybe get used to. You rest your head on his shoulder and let your eyes fall shut again as he kisses the top of your head. "Sleep, Livia."