A/N: I know i've been gone for a bit. Again. And people want updates of other things, but right now this is all I have to give.

Sorry.

Warning: Violence ahead.

-Present-

The rest of the week passes by in monotonous waves intermittently broken up by moments of severe distress. One of the girls you mentor, Amelia, tries to kill herself in the bathroom. Another of your mentees had found Amelia after escaping to the bathroom to smoke a cigarette - something you'd asked her to do outside and now you're thankful she hadn't listened. If Amelia hadn't been found only moments post slicing her wrists, she would've died; bled out on the floor of a recreational center.

You'd known when Amelia had walked away from you after your session that she hadn't been okay. You wouldn't have been okay either if your mother's boyfriends had made their way into you bed at night. Your mother had been many things; a drunk, a liar, an abuser, but you'd never once worried about her dates forsaking her for you. Amelia hadn't been so lucky. And you'd tried, by God you tried everything you could think of to help her. The old mantras of it wasn't her fault, screaming, breaking things. . . but it'd all only served to further strengthen her resolve to leave this world.

Hopefully now, she'd receive undivided attention and help of a higher caliber. You had so many to save on the daily that sometimes you couldn't save them all. It was always the ones who fell through the cracks that hurt you the most.

"Olivia."

You blink hard, eyes refocusing on what's in front of you. It takes you a minute to realise that you've been staring at your computer screen for the last few minutes or so. The report you'd started to send to your boss about Amelia remains half finished.

Turning in your chair, you find Melinda, her normally curly brown hair straight and pulled back away from her face, staring at you. A M.D, Melinda comes in three times a week for free of charge to help the various runaways and assault victims best she can. She's the first friend you made in Chicago outside of Sergeant Platt, and she's a god-send. Not only had she taught you how to handle Charlotte's curls, but she'd become your confidant in times of need.

"You okay there?" Melinda asks as she slides into the chair across from you.

You chortle at her comment. She knows you're not okay - she'd been the one to help you apply pressure to Amelia's wrists and keep the other kids at the center calm while you waited for an ambulance.

"I'm fine," you lie and Melinda's right eyebrow upticks at your blatant fib.

"Olivia, how long have we known each other now?"

A noncommittal shrug of your shoulders is the only answer you give as you rise to your feet and stretch. She knows you far too well for your good. Almost as well as Alex.

"So you know that I know you're not fine then. You've been out of it all week. What's going on? Aside from Amelia." Aside from one of the girls you'd promise to help - to protect - falling through the cracks of your screwed up head? What about the fact that you'd cheated on your husband. A husband who, all week has sought out your affections and you've shied away from them all. A husband who'd asked you to take care of the most precious thing in his life, his daughter, and you'd responded with betrayal.

"Mel, I promise -"

"Bullshit," she states bluntly. "It's not just Amelia either. Ever since you got back from New York, you've looked like you're going to break down in tears any moment now. Get out of your head and talk to someone."

You fight the urge to roll your eyes like a petulant teenager being told what to do by a parent. Somewhere inside your head, you know Melinda's right; you have to get this out. It isn't just Amelia. It's Elliot, it's the hurt you feel when you look at Charlotte; it's the knowledge that you've broken something irreparable, again. But -

"I'm fine, Melinda." you lie a bit more forcefully this time.

She chortles and rolls her eyes. "You're a goddamn liar and we both know it."

"Look, if you came in here just to pick at me -"

"I came in here to check on you - to help your hard headed ass because that's what friends do - but I see it's just about useless. I've got kids I can be helping." Melinda climbs to her feet and heads to the door. You watch as she goes, sighing. Your eyes slip closed when you hear her pivot on her heels, your door shutting.

She comes back towards your desk and reaches inside her purse, she pulls out a tiny brown doll with ringlet curls wearing a blue dress.

"I bought this for Char, thought it looked like her." She sets the doll on the edge of your desk and your tears are almost instantaneous.

The slip down you cheeks, stinging your eyes as they mingle with your eyeliner and mascara. Every inch of you feels awful; you're a shit person. Your friend had cared more about the little girl you'd taken in - who'd taken you in - as your own than you did. Her big bright brown eyes flit across your min. She loves you unconditionally - she loves her family unconditionally - and you'd traded that for a night in bed with the ex-husband you'd destroyed and who in turn had destroyed you. The ex-husband you couldn't stop thinking about - dreaming about. Every inch of you ached for him. He knew you better than anyone. And then there was Jonah; sweet Jonah. The love he'd shown you, given you when all else had been lost…

Melinda's arms around you before you even understand what she's doing. Sometimes you have a hard time with affection - your mother had never shown you any so displays of it unnerved you - but other times, like right now, you find yourself melting into it. Melinda's arms are comforting around you. She soothes you, brush a hand over your disheveled hair and whispering in your ear that it'll all be okay.

The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them.

"I cheated on Jonah."

She pulls back from you, eyes wide in confusion. You duck your head low, drawing your bottom teeth between your lips and biting down hard. Jonah and Melinda had been acquaintances long before you'd ever stepped into the picture; you could only imagine what she was currently thinking about you right now.

"You what?"

"In New York...I slept with someone else."

Her arms uncoil from around you and she plops down on the edge of your desk. You wipe at your eyes, cheeks sticky with tears.

"Olivia."

"Don't - don't lecture me right now. I know I'm a horrible person. I know. And I can't even say I didn't mean to because I knew...I knew what I was doing. It's like I was standing outside of myself watching myself. The more part of me said no, the more. . . ." the tears swell up again and you wipe at your face; guilt like brick sitting on your stomach.

Melinda blinks hard a few times, forehead bunching together as she listens to you. "Okay, you're going to have to start at the beginning. How long have you been having an affair?"

"I'm not having an affair, I'd never do that to -" you stop because it's a lie. You already have done that to Jonah. "It's not an affair and I didn't get drunk and sleep with some random stranger at the wedding. I. . . I slept with my ex-husband."

Incredulity spreads across her face. "Your ex-husband. The same ex-husband I remember you telling me you haven't talked to in a decade. What were you - Jesus Christ, Olivia. Jonah's a good man."

Jonah's a good man.

Jonah's a good man.

You know. You do.

"Elliot and I haven't seen each other since we signed our divorce papers. He didn't even come to my mom's funeral. Not that I expected differently with the way she treated him, and it just happened. We started talking about who we were when we were together and the love, it came back." And now it won't go away. "But Mel, please...please don't say anything to Jonah. I'm already kicking myself right now. I need sometime to figure out how I can tell him myself. I need to prepare myself for the worst, okay. I don't know what I'm going to do - I don't know what he's going to do. Counseling, divorce - take Charlotte. I-"

You don't expect it but she snaps at you, quick and harsh. "Don't even - don't you dare. I've known Jonah for at least eleven years now. He's a good man. That little girl is his world. He'd never take her from the only mother she knows."

The only mother she knows. A Liar and a cheat. You talked to her while you were still with Elliot - the smell of sex lingering in air. Tears build behind your eyes again. Melinda sighs, soft footfalls sound against the carpet of your office floor. She takes the seat opposite your desk and scrubs a hand over her face.

A beat.

"Are you in love with him?" Melinda asks and your mind goes straight to Jonah.

"Of course I do, he's my husband."

"I didn't mean Jonah, Olivia, I meant your ex. You said the love between you two came back. It had to be pretty strong love if even after ten years you could just fall into bed with him without a second thought. Are you still in love with him?"

Yes.

No.

For fuck's sake you don't know. You know you never stopped loving him. Everything about Elliot was home, familiarity. His frame, his hold. The way he touched you. But you learned long ago that going backwards isn't an option - it couldn't be. Besides, Jonah, he gave you a second chance at love, at life.

"I don't know much of anything right now other than this is killing me. I didn't set out to sleep with Elliot. I didn't even know he was supposed to be there. I don't want to hurt Jonah because my hormones suddenly became nostalgic. Please, don't tell him. Let me."

"It's not my place to tell Jonah anything, Olivia. But you - you need to tell him. Before something else happens and it's too late. You used protection, right?"

A long drawn out sigh saunters from you lips and Melinda just shakes her head.

"I'm on the pill faithfully."

She just shakes her head once more, her brown eyes boring into you as the cell phone clipped to the inside of her belt loops goes off.

"That's the hospital, I should probably get down there." she gets to her feet. "And you should tell Jonah. He's going to be hurt, but you need to. You can't help others until you help yourself."

You just nod, watching as she goes. You know she's right.

/

That night when you get home you find Jonah's home before you for once. It's a little after eight he and Charlotte are snuggled in his oversized lazy boy, sleeping in the den. Aristocats plays on low in the background and you smile as you traipse into your bedroom to change.

You strip yourself of your clothes and make your way over to your dresser to find some pajamas, choosing to forgo your shower for the morning. You bypass your normal tank top and pajama shorts and rummage through your oversized, long abandoned t-shirt collection, pausing when your fingers stop on a shirt you thought you'd thrown out ages ago. The familiar navy blue of the NYPD shirt with the numbers 6313 emblazoned on the right arm taunts you from its covert position at the bottom of your drawer. You thought you'd locked it away in the closet with your other belongings of your past life. You could've sworn you had.

A deep sadness swells in the pit of your stomach as you stare at the stupid shirt, part of you wanting desperately to slip it on over your naked body. The other part of you want to burn until you could sweep the ashes away. You rip a bright red Chicago Bulls t-shirt out of the drawer instead and hastily slip it on over your head. It falls just past mid-thigh and you quickly pull on a pair of boxers you'd stolen from Jonah ages ago to go with it. You slam your dresser drawer shut, a stray tear slipping down your cheek as you lean against solid oak. He - Elliot - had given you that shirt (well, you'd stolen it, really) the night he'd made detective, the night you'd made your . . . .

A surge of anger propels you forward as you pivot on your heels and whip the drawer open, seizing the shirt in question in hand. You cross the room over to your bedroom closet - the walk in closet that was to fancy, too large for your simple taste - and flip on the light. On the floor sits an old, somewhat dusty box you haven't touched in years. Slinging the shirt over your shoulder, you make your way to the box and open it. Inside sits photo albums, loose pictures, all of it from New York and the life you had there. Your patrol badge, your high school graduation...and your first wedding photos. The all stare back at you bunch the shirt up and shove it in the box as forcefully as you can, not carrying what you smash in the process. You're all set to close the box when a pair of newborn footies catch your eyes.

The sob that bubbles up your throat almost chokes you and you sit on the floor cursing yourself - God - whoever will listen as the pain you've kept at bay for so long threatens to swallow you whole.

A few beats pass followed by a long bout of silence as you try to regain your composure.

"Mommy…." Charlotte's distant voice sounds.

"Livvie, you home?" Jonah's soon follows suit.

Best you can, and for the second time that day, you wipe at your raw eyes and try to pull yourself together.

"Just putting on my pjs," you shout back, voice threatening to crack as you place the top back on the box that holds everything you simultaneously want to remember and forget. "Coming."

-1993-

For once in the span of your year long partnership, you're the slob shoveling her face with donuts as your partner sits next to you in sipping coffee in silence.

You're so damn hungry and so angry - at yourself, at Elliot - that you're surprised steam isn't coming out of your ears by now. You wonder if he's still sitting on the couch with that ugly bright pink shirt in hand plotting out your life for you.

Gonzales, your partner, looks at you, a smirk on his lips.

"Yeah, when my wife was pregnant, she ate like that too." he chuckles, you almost choke.

Pregnant? He can see it on you? Already?

His large hand pants you on your back as you struggle to find airflow through donut dust.

"I'm not…" you sputter.

Gonzalés rolls his eyes. "Come on kid, don't play with me. I've got three kids. I know the signs. The yawning, the eating, the throwing up…" he trails off and you almost want to shrink into yourself. You'd only thrown up twice near him.

If he can tell so easily, you'll be riding a desk in the next couple of days.

"I'm surprised your husband let you out here in your condition though. I mean, you gotta be what, bout four - five months? You should be taking it easy…."

"And you should mind your own business," you bite back. "My husband doesn't let me do anything." You toss the lone plain donut in the baker's box onto the dashboard. If one more man tells you what you should be doing with your body, you're doing to scream.

"Look sweet-"

"If you know what's good for you, you won't finish that sentence." you warn, eyes full of fire.

Gonzalés raises his hands in mock surrender and goes back to sipping on his coffee when your radio comes alive. It's dispatch.

"We've got a 273D on 49th & 9th all available units in the area please respond. Over."

You look up and the street sign above your head reads 47th and 9th. Well, guess your night's not going to be as boring as you'd originally thought. Though the prospects of splitting apart a fighting husband and wife knowing full well the husband wouldn't get more than a slap on the wrist and a night in the drunk tank unless his wife was beat to hell, didn't exact seem appealing to you. Boy did this job have a long way to go when it came to women.

"Alright, Benson, you take the wife- girlfriend - whatever, I got the husband."

Your patrol car roars to life as you two set out.

/

When you come up on the scene you're the first to get out. Gonzales unsurprisingly enough moves slow. You know his attitude when it comes to cases like this - he always found a way to side with the husband. You make your way up to the door when it swings open on you. A white man in probably his early to mid thirties dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and dark grey sweatpants moves to push past you, but stops when he sees you.

"Oh come on, the bitch called the cops? All I did was shove her away from me - she got in my face first…"

You roll your eyes knowing full well that he's not telling you the full story, the bruised knuckles on both his hands say differently.

"Come on man, don't make this any more difficult than it has to be," Gonzales says and you fight the urge to shoot him a dirty look for his niceties towards the criminal in front of you.

"Alright sir," you start, "we're gonna need you to put your hands on your head and -"

You don't get to finish your sentence because he pushes past you, shoulder slamming into yours as he goes. You spin on your heels and almost hit the ground but catch yourself just in time.

"Son of a bitch!" you growl, a fire igniting in the pit of your stomach that for once isn't because you're about to throw up. Before you know it, you're running - chasing after the bastard. Gonzales shouts something unintelligible from behind you and you know you can outrun him any day of the week.

Over broken glass and through a narrow alley way you chase your suspect - you're not even sure if your partner's running with you any more. All you know is that you're sick of people's shit today and when you catch this guy, you just might hurt him.

But you never get a chance.

You're running straight ahead, darkness ripping around you when you feel it, a sharp pain to your midsection.

You're knocked backwards off your feet, and suddenly the ground is beneath you, your face skidding against the cement. Then it hits you again. It's something hard, something metal. It comes down again and again; against your ribs, your thighs, and your stomach. You feel a crack, something's burning. Pain rips through your body. Every inch of you is shaking. The sound of metal clanging against concrete followed by retreating footsteps somehow barrels through the pain and you manage to open your eyes long enough to see the suspect you'd been chasing running away, a crowbar sits maybe a foot from you.

"BENSON!" Gonzales shouts. You shake. Everything hurts. "BENSON!"

The pain intensifies in your abdomen. You're cramping - hard. Somehow you manage to roll into a ball on your side when you feel it, the wetness between your thighs. It's sticky and warm, playing in stark contrast to the coolness of the concrete.

Blood.

Your baby.

You'd forgotten about your baby.

God no.

"Ahhhhhh." A cramp tears up your back and your eyes slam shut. Everything hurts. Everything. "My baby..."