A/N: I really wanted to finish another cover I'm working on so I could include it with this chapter, but it's taking longer than expected. I'll try to have it done for the next update. (There is a new one posted over on AO3, though.) Last week saw me getting one of my dogs spayed (with her having a false pregnancy as a result), a creepy ex trying to rekindle a relationship he ended, feeling generally triggered, and bummed about the lack of reviews—and time kinda got away from me. Sorry, guys. I also tend to overshare when I'm down, lol. Anyway. Debuting a new character in this chapter, hope y'all like her. On a side note, I wrote this long before they finally gave Liv a female therapist on the show. Just sayin'. Trigger Warning for descriptions/flashbacks of rape and PTSD. P.S. I guess not having all the artwork up does leave it open for a little guessing game... see if you can guess which celebrity Dr. Birdwell is based on! *cue Jeopardy theme song*

Chapter 59.

Penny Lane

. . .

One more minute. The woman got one more minute to arrive. If she didn't show up within that time, Olivia felt perfectly justified in standing up, hooking her bag over her shoulder, and marching right out of the office. Never mind that Penelope L. Birdwell, Ph.D., wasn't actually late for their five o'clock appointment, but it did not bode well that Olivia had been seated in her office fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, yet the psychologist wasn't here and only had a minute—make that thirty seconds—to spare.

"Besides," Olivia muttered under her breath, "her initials sound like 'pleb,' and that's less than encouraging."

She was being contrary again, and looking for any excuse to leave, which was exactly what she'd promised Amanda she would not do. Even though her faith in therapists was shot; even though she highly suspected that Dr. Birdwell had come recommended to Amanda by none other than Dana Lewis, deceiver extraordinaire (she'd overheard them on the phone, discussing "the next step," presumably in her recovery); even though the thought of discussing her sustained attack, of voluntarily reliving it for even just a second, filled her stomach with roiling hot dread.

"Just give her a chance, Liv. Please. I've heard some really great things about her, and I think she could really help you. She's a survivor too—she wrote a book about it—and she'll be able to understand you way better than Lindstrom ever did."

So, from Lindstrom to Birdwell she went. And maybe a female therapist truly was the way to go. She hadn't shared her deepest, darkest secrets—not all of them, not honestly—with another woman, other than Amanda, since mistakenly placing her trust in Rebecca Hendrix, back in the academy. Underhanded Becky, who had used Olivia's personal details to write her dissertation and who jumped ship from the NYPD into the psychological field.

Oh, the irony.

But if she could get past her mistrust of women, instilled by her mother and reinforced by Becky, seeing a female therapist would probably be beneficial in a lot of ways. Not the least of which was the odds of being sexually assaulted by another woman were relatively low. Not nonexistent. But low.

The odds of being stood up by another woman, though . . .

At five o'clock on the dot, the connecting door to the office, which gave onto what appeared to be (in the three seconds or less that Olivia glimpsed it) a smaller inner office, breezed open as if by a gust of wind. There was a desk on the other side of that door, Olivia sensed it in her bones, shuddered, and almost turned away, except for the pint-sized fairy-person who whisked inside the room.

Before Olivia focused on her, she thought she was looking at a child rather than what the fairy turned out to be: a full-grown woman. For one thing, a child wouldn't be so busty; for another, no child wore a tweed skirt suit in sherbet colors and wandered the halls of a therapist's office with a clipboard and notepad. She could be an assistant of some sort, Olivia reasoned, but she didn't put off much of an assistant vibe.

No, Olivia was pretty sure she was looking at Lindstrom's successor, an itty-bitty thing that likely didn't clear sixty inches in stocking feet and who would probably make Daphne Tyler—all 5'1" and 105 pounds of her—seem like Godzilla in comparison. Penelope L. Birdwell, Ph.D., had finally arrived, precisely on time, and she was nothing like Olivia expected. Beyond just the small stature, she was also very blond and quite pretty, with animated features befitting a Barbie doll, or at least Barbie's little sister Skipper. With all the credentials and accolades framed on the walls and mentioned on the website (Amanda had checked it out; Olivia avoided the Internet as much as possible these days), Olivia had pictured Dr. Birdwell a bit older. Maybe a bit dour.

Birdwell flashed a smile that was pure sunshine. "You thought I'd be taller, didn't you?" she asked without any sarcasm or malice. Her voice was young-sounding too, and girlishly high, although not annoyingly so. All in all, she seemed rather pleasant and Olivia did something she hardly ever did, even in the best of times—she took an instant liking to the younger woman, whose presence was oddly soothing. Perhaps Penelope Birdwell just reminded her of someone she'd known and liked in the past, or perhaps it was the therapist's youthful appearance and nonthreatening size, but either way, Olivia felt as though she could talk to this woman. Trust her, even. "Everybody does that. I don't know what it is about the name Penelope that brings to mind long legs. The 'lope' part, maybe? Like a loping stride?"

"That's . . . one theory." Olivia gave a light chuckle, bemused but not too thrown to find humor in the situation and the questions. The ice had been effectively broken when Penelope walked in with the face and physique—except for those D-cups—of a ten-year-old. "Birdwell has sort of a lofty ring to it too. Like you should be . . . higher up or something."

Once more, Dr. Birdwell did the surprising thing, tossing her head back to emit a cackling little laugh that would have been annoying on someone less charming than she. On her, it was just another cute quirk. "I haven't heard that one before. I like it. It's better than the chirping noises I got from the kids in grade school. They called me Tweety Bird because of my voice and . . . well, everything. Hair, face, height, name."

Penelope Birdwell talked with her hands, indicating each feature as she referenced it. For the latter item, she pointed to the nameplate on her bookshelf. Her movements were graceful and concise, like a tiny orchestra conductor. All that was missing was the white baton. "Thank goodness they didn't know the L stands for Lane. Yes, as in Penny Lane. With the ears and the eyes and all that nonsense. Huge Beatles fan, my father."

She sang the paraphrased lyrics rather than spoke them, and though Olivia was no musical expert, the clear-as-a-bell soprano voice sounded flawless to her. Broadway caliber, to be honest.

"Oh good gracious, listen to me. I've already told you my life story and we haven't even been properly introduced yet." Dr. Birdwell put out her hand for a shake, but didn't move toward Olivia until a hand was offered in return. She waved for Olivia to sit back down instead of rising to her full height for the greeting, and frankly, it was a relief. Olivia had intentionally chosen an armchair that faced the door she had entered through, because she needed to know where all the exits were in any room she was in now; if the doctor asked her to relocate to the sofa, she would have to refuse—its back was to the door.

But Dr. Birdwell wasn't into mind games, at least not so far. "Penelope Birdwell," she said, her handshake neither too weak nor too firm, but falling somewhere in the middle. "You may call me Penny or Dr. Penny—or Dr. Birdwell—if you prefer. It's not required. I'm not really a stickler on formality. Totally fine if you are, though."

"Captain Olivia Benson," Olivia said. "Rollins-Benson. But I'm only a stickler when it's called for, so just Olivia will be fine for these sessions." Who knows how much longer the formal address will still apply, anyway, she thought darkly, while keeping a light exterior. She had become something of an expert at separating her inner self from the outer one, even more so post-attack, and she hated to think how much of it was because the physical was shut off from the rest of her. She hadn't been properly in her body since a sunny Saturday afternoon back in May.

"Pardon me for saying so, Olivia, but you don't sound terribly convinced about that." Penny trod lightly, both figuratively and literally, as she moved to the other armchair opposite Olivia, and settled in with an apologetic expression, as if she regretted her keen ear.

"Which one? My name or my rank?" Facetiousness did not translate well on Olivia, coming out instead in a defensive tone she hadn't exactly intended. (Why hadn't she just left when she had the chance?)

Penny cocked her head, a cascade of long, blond hair falling in a pretty ribbon down her shoulder. It was enviable, that confidence. She'd probably never had the thick sunbeam-colored strands forcibly cut off in her entire life, Olivia was willing to bet. "Either," she said, her voice somber despite its childish timbre. "I can see that you're really struggling with identity right now. Feelings of detachment and distrust as well. But I think it's a good sign that you're here, and you've stuck around to see it through."

Dammit, she had to go and be all intuitive, on top of being likable. Olivia opened her mouth to deny it—identity, detachment, or distrust issues of any kind; Jesus H., she was fine—but the words came tumbling out on their own, with little to no input from her brain or her better judgment: "Last spring I was abducted and held captive for three days by human traffickers who gang raped me repeatedly and live-streamed it on the darknet. I thought the only way to escape was by ending my own life. There was a belt I was going to . . . they stopped me. If not for my wife taking matters into her own hands, I'd either be rotting in an unmarked grave or chained to a bed in some East European shithole that might as well be a grave.

"The men involved are all dead now, and I'm glad. I hope they're rotting in Hell, including the disabled boy. He didn't even try to help me, just stuck his fingers in me like the rest of them. Laughed with them. I hope he suffered as much as I did. I hope they all fucking suf—" Her throat caught on a flood of vitriol that nearly made her gag (it reminded her of semen), and she swallowed several times before continuing. Breathed.

"It's, uh, it's taken me this long to be okay going out by myself, without my wife, but I tried returning to work recently, and I had a breakdown when a DV offender walked into my precinct and started screaming for his spouse. I don't think I can do my job anymore, and I don't know who I am without it, so . . . I suppose you're correct: I'm not sure about my rank or my name anymore. 'Olivia Benson' used to stand for something. Truth, fairness, justice. I used to take such pride in my official title, even when it was still just Detective. Now . . . I don't know. I don't know what any of it means."

To her credit, Penny Birdwell hardly batted an eyelash as she listened to the outpouring from her new patient. She was either highly professional or she had plenty of experience with cases of extreme trauma, both of which were encouraging qualities in a therapist. Her expression hadn't remained totally neutral, however; the incline of her head, the soft sea-green eyes, the gentle nodding—all signs of an empathic listener who cared deeply and wasn't afraid to show it. Olivia recognized the technique because it was the same one she used with victims, the one that came from the heart, not just the head.

A small part of her wanted to react defensively again, but she managed to suppress it with minimal effort. After surviving fifty-four years, an abusive mother, a couple of abusive relationships, multiple episodes of sexual abuse, and a handful of incomplete sexual assaults (non-rapes, if you will), she finally had to admit she was a victim. Even a mind as experienced as hers at compartmentalizing and minimizing trauma could not explain away a vicious, sustained gang assault that had caused so much damage she'd almost died—more than once.

It would be ludicrous to try.

Interestingly, she found she didn't want to explain it away, despite the shame it inspired. To deny what had happened, to downplay the suffering she had lived through, and its enduring effects, was almost like excusing it. She had made excuses for other people's awful behavior her entire life: Serena, because what mother wouldn't occasionally lose her patience with a difficult child she had never really wanted in the first place?; Daniel, because he had been young himself and probably didn't know the legal age of consent at the time; Elliot Stabler, because he was her partner, the first example of a protective father she had ever known, and his frightening, explosive anger was only directed at abusers—usually; Joe Hollister, because Serena had kept Olivia all to herself, and later, because there had to be more to the story than just a stranger rape, they're so rare, and what rapist keeps tabs on his offspring anyway?

She'd excused Rafa for killing an infant and walking out on their friendship, claiming it was her fault; Alex, for drifting in and out of her life, never making a commitment, never asking Olivia to either, until it went against everything she stood for; her brother Simon, for being a screw-up, a manipulator, an addict, because look at the example he'd grown up with; Calvin Arliss and Amelia Cole, because she had failed them both so miserably and, however inadvertently, had a hand in creating the monsters they became. She had even managed to rationalize some of William Lewis' behavior, at least where she was involved; after all, she'd spent much of their time together baiting, provoking, tantalizing—then nearly beating him to death—it was like dangling a steak in front of a hungry bear you've just been poking, what else had she expected to happen?

But there was no justifying The Box and the things those evil men had done to her inside it. She would cut out her own tongue before she would say one word in their defense. If they were still alive, she would have hunted them down and killed them herself, for turning her into a victim.

All of it came out, some a bit more slowly than the rest, over the next few sessions with Dr. Birdwell. Penny. Where Olivia had held back with Lindstrom, for fear of revealing too much, appearing too damaged, she was a mostly open book with the new therapist. Why pick and choose what to share, when Penny already knew the worst of it, anyway? Penny listened with equal compassion to the stories of Serena's petty, mean-spirited ways as she did to the random details of the gang attack and flashbacks that popped up during therapy. She understood Olivia's mixed feelings about her mother—the love and the hate—and she expressed genuine anger at the men who had hurt her. That shocked Olivia; none of her other therapists had ever gotten angry on her behalf before. It was strangely validating.

"It's okay to get pissed off sometimes, you know," Penny said one day in late fall, when the holidays were bearing down and stress levels were significantly higher. She looked cozy as Christmas in a red cashmere sweater, a fluffy, oversized blanket swaddling her from the waist down. Olivia had one too, covering the legs she had tucked to one side on the couch. They were both sipping mugs of hot cocoa. Unfortunately, the mini marshmallows were long-since melted. "I don't recommend making a habit of it, but once in a while you have to let it out. Olivia, no one is going to stop loving you if you lose your temper occasionally. In fact it might actually strengthen your relationships if you're not constantly worrying about saying or doing the wrong thing and driving the other person away."

"Easy for you to say. When's the last time your mother—the one person in all the world who's supposed to love you no matter what—looked you in the eye and told you she hated you? And meant it." Absent a spoon for stirring, her distraction of choice, Olivia blew on the surface of the cocoa, which wasn't very hot anymore.

Penny pursed her lips, a mannerism she relied on often. It accentuated her cheekbones like a supermodel's, and always made Olivia wonder if she practiced in front of the mirror at home. "We're here to discuss your feelings and experiences, not mine," she said, matching Olivia's cheeky tone. She kept the challenge light, but it was there too.

"Let me guess, your mother loved you unconditionally, whether you misbehaved, rebelled, got a bad grade, didn't like the same books she did, the same booze. It didn't matter because, ultimately, you were secure in that love, that it would never go away." Olivia found her hand gesturing the sentence along, and ended with an upturned palm, sketching a small shrug. "And that's wonderful. That's the way it's supposed to be, and I wouldn't wish anything less for you. But my experience with love is that it ends. Usually badly and without a goodbye. So, yes, I'm careful how I treat the people who are most important to me. Isn't that a good thing?"

"Only if they don't use it to walk all over you. And if you don't use it as an excuse to bottle difficult emotions up inside. That leads to all sorts of bad responses: outbursts, breakdowns, depression, illness, addiction—"

"I am not an addict!" Olivia said sharply, the slight jerk forward almost sloshing cocoa over the rim of her cup. A little bit fuller, it would have wetted her lap. She shouldn't have been so vehement; Penny wasn't accusing her of anything—being a doormat maybe, but not an alcoholic—it had just hit a nerve. She seemed to have a lot extra of those lying around lately.

"No one's saying you are," Penny said, a calming hand stretched in Olivia's direction. She patted the air as if it were an arm or a shoulder. She was a tactile person, but also very careful to keep her hands to herself. "It's just an example of what can happen when your emotions have no outlet. You start self-medicating to dull the pain you can't express, and before long—"

"Before long, you're an abusive drunk who embarrasses her kids and makes a fool of herself at work parties. Trust me, I know the drill." Absently Olivia swigged the hot chocolate, more out of frustration than the desire to drink it. She had it almost gone by the time she looked down at the mug, realizing what she was doing. "I don't know why we're talking about my mother anyway, this is supposed to be about the attack and learning how to heal from that."

There went Penny's lips again. "You're the one who brought up your mother," she said gently. "But it's rather telling that you associate her with your anger and being unable to express it, don't you think? Something to consider there. As for healing, that's what I'm getting at: until you face the anger you feel about what happened in that shipping container, about the substantial abuse you've experienced, you can't fully move past it. I'm not saying take it out on anyone else, but if you're constantly holding back for fear that you'll be abandoned, how will you ever work through it and find happiness again?"

"Happiness . . . " Olivia gazed across the room at nothing in particular, letting her eyes go glassy. In the past several months she'd been so busy just trying to get from one day to the next, she hadn't even stopped to consider happiness or what it might look like for her now. Was she even capable of such a thing? She had been before the attack—happy—she knew that much.

For the first time in her life she had found true happiness and contentment, through her wife and children. Maybe if she'd gotten there once, she could get there again. Hopefully it wouldn't take another fifty years this time.

"Throw the mug."

Olivia snapped back to reality and stared at her therapist. "What?" She must have misheard; there was no way the woman could be directing her to destroy personal property in the middle of the cozy and impeccably tidy room. It looked like a Crate & Barrel window display in here.

Penelope Birdwell lifted her own identical mug—taupe, with a matte glaze that gave it the appearance of unfinished clay—and tapped the side with her fingernail. She was suggesting exactly what Olivia's ears had heard, it seemed: "You're empty. Go ahead, chuck it at the wall or the door. Floor, if you want. Probably not the window, though, otherwise I'll freeze my patootie off until it's fixed."

"I . . . What?" Olivia glanced into the mug, which was indeed empty. So that's why she had stopped the compulsive sipping. She cupped the bottom in both hands, as if it were a large, fragile egg, and one she had no intention of throwing. "I can't do that. I'm not even all that angry right now. I'd feel worse about breaking something of yours than I'd feel about keeping my temper in check."

"They hold no sentimental value for me. I can buy new. In fact, this set needs replacing, a couple of the pieces have chips in them." Penny drained her mug of one final swig, then let it hang precariously by the handle from the crook of her index finger. She swung it back and forth, demonstrating how indifferent she was to watching it clatter onto the floor. "Go on. I want to see you blow off some of that steam you keep such a tight lid on. You might enjoy it. Here's your chance for a good old-fashioned, no-holds-barred, guilt-free tantrum. Swearing is optional but encouraged." She went on enticing with the mug, ticking it side to side now, like a hypnotist pendulum.

You're getting angry, very angry . . .

Thing of it was, Olivia was starting to get a little irritated. She didn't come to therapy for crackpot methods and childish games that were a waste of her time and hard-earned salary. Well, Amanda's hard-earned salary these days. Olivia had managed to return to work after the scare with the abusive husband, but mainly in a supervisory capacity; she hardly left the precinct anymore, and seldom stepped out of her office when she got there. She hadn't met with a single victim since Claudia Mathers, let alone interrogated a perp.

Oz the Great and Powerful had ascended his fiery throne.

God, when she thought about how it used to be, how she'd been able to walk down the street without fear, how she had looked men like her rapists in the eye without being intimidated, how all of it and so much more had been taken from her—it really did make her want to hurl the damn cup at the wall. And why not? Why not lash out in a safe space
(no such thing)
with someone there who could guide you back if it went too far? Besides, Birdwell was looking at her like she didn't believe she would do it. Like Olivia was too weak, too proper to cross that line.

It occurred to her that Penny Birdwell had never known the Olivia Benson she was before, and probably never would. That infuriated her, but it was also a kind of relief: she didn't have to put on a show for the doctor. She could be as mad and messy as she wanted—needed—to be. As mad and messy as the old Olivia Benson never allowed herself to be.

Picturing the desk in the other room, which she had glimpsed a time or two during her previous visits, she sized up the door that led to it. Her aim was excellent, she seldom missed a target.

Oh, fuck it.

Clapping the base of the mug in one palm like a baseball, she lobbed the whole thing across the room with the same form, a pitcher on the mound. It exploded against the door with a satisfying crack, leaving a small chink in the wood. The handle shot off in another direction, and the rest thumped to the floor with the defeat of a bird that had met its demise on a spotless picture window.

Olivia settled a smug little smile on her therapist, who looked impressed, but not as astonished as she would have liked. The astonishment turned out to be hers, when Penny extended the second empty mug, nodding for her to take it and repeat the steps all over again. "Good. Pretend all of the men who hurt you are on the other side of that door," Penny said. "Show them how you feel about what they did to you."

Impossible. She didn't have her gun or enough bullets to shoot them one by one. But a curious thing was happening: as the room filled with the sneering, jeering faces of all the men—a couple of women too—who had harmed Olivia over the years, the rage inside of her began to grow as well. She saw Lewis in there, her mother and father, Calvin and Amelia, Lowell Harris, the Sandman and his so-called Dreamlanders; Amanda's father Mean Dean and her old boss from Atlanta PD joined the mix, and that freak named Orion who had hunted them down like animals in the woods; Declan Murphy, Henry Mesner, Alpha, Giacomo the therapist, and the other men who had put their hands on her when she was too young and too small to defend herself.

By the time she recognized them all, the anger and sheer hatred had swelled so large inside of her, she feared she might explode if given no outlet.

The second mug wasn't enough. Cracked into four separate pieces, but none of them were as grievously shattered as she felt. She didn't object to the glass vase placed in her hands next. A centerpiece for the coffee table, it contained only decorative glass gemstones (Penny was into succulents, not fresh-cut flowers) and provided the most vivid color—faceted pink, purple and blue ombré—in a room of otherwise muted earth tones. It was the little bit of pretty Olivia always looked for, wherever she went.

"Cheap knockoff from—"

The crash was spectacular, emitting beautiful shimmering shards and the pebble-like gems in a fireworks display that tinkled musically as it fell. Rainbow-colored drops from a symphonic downpour. More! More! cried the voices raised in song. Or perhaps it was her hungry hands, which gobbled up everything the doctor fed to them: a framed black-and-white of an ancient rowboat, solitary on dark water; magazines that flapped like wild, injured birds, pages half-shredded by clawing fingers; a lamp shaped like an ivory bust of the Buddha and the wooden potpourri bowl beside it (the tea light inside winked out midair); a book whose pages she didn't rip out, but whose spine she folded backwards on itself—Serena had always yelled at her for cracking the spines; an oversized magnifying glass that hit the door like an ax, though it didn't stick or break; an anniversary clock that rivaled the vase in spectacle when gears, springs, the torsion pendulum, and the dome scattered in every direction, all at once.

When the throw pillows on the couch ran out, she heaved the couch cushions, and when those ran out, she launched her bag after them. (Lipstick, loose change, keys, business cards—Capt. Olivia Benson, ha!—Ibuprofen, the propranolol that was useless for panic attacks, a pair of readers, and the rose quartz heart she squeezed until her hand ached when the flashbacks were bad, spewed from the top in a volcanic eruption.) She would have taken off her shoes and hurled them too—why should her belongings escape the rampage?—but being barefoot reminded her of The Box, where her shoes had been taken from her. Where everything had been taken from her.

"Fuck you," she growled, then flung the only thing left in her arsenal: herself.

She hit the door at full tilt, elbows and fists first, and attacked with every bit of strength in her depleted frame. One thirty-four now
(Jesus, babe, you gotta eat!)
even the doctors were starting to comment: Your BMI is still within the normal range, Ms. Rollins-Benson, however . . . She kicked and cursed with the brute force of someone twice her size, until her feet and throat were numb, her brain unable to distinguish between one end or the other, the pounding in her feet, her heart, or her head.

Fists, she had those too! At first she used the fleshy parts on the sides, but when she switched to knuckles, pummeling the wood as if it were a punching bag and she a boxer in training, an anxious voice tried to stop her. Small hands at her back, on her arms, struggling to restrain them. She was vaguely aware of their femininity, the voice and hands, and therefore lashed out only at the door that shielded the men. They were in there, cowering from her cataclysmic rage, like she had cowered under her desk and on that filthy stinking mattress. On the iron bed frame; behind boxes in the prison basement. An upstairs room in the library; her small bedroom closet when she couldn't escape the apartment and Mommy.

"My whole life," she cried, unaware they were her words, that she was panting from exertion and intense emotion. Even as she collapsed against the door, sinking to her knees in exhaustion, she slapped it with her palms, clawed it with her fingernails. "My whole goddamn life. Fought so hard. I was finally safe. She's my safe place, but they still got me. Not safe anywhere."

"I know it feels that way, Olivia. It probably will for a very long time. But you built that safety for yourself before, many times from the sound of it, and you'll get it back again this time. And now you've got a support system to help you, so you don't have to rebuild alone. You don't have to do any of this alone. You are so loved and you deserve to heal. I believe you can. We'll work at it together, no matter how long it takes."

Olivia wanted to protest, to say it was too hard and she couldn't start all over from the beginning—maybe at ten, fifteen, nineteen, thirty-nine, even forty-four, but fifty-four, no—but she was too tired to fight anymore. Penny's arms were around her, holding her up and offering a warm, lightly perfumed shelter to cry in, and that's what she did. After all, every step toward healing she'd ever taken was steeped in tears.

. . .