Just a warning for general darkness and mentions of sexual assault. Post-Sealview, that's all you need to know.

She's passed through this hallway a thousand times, but suddenly the walls of the sixteenth precinct feel unfamiliar around her. Everything looks foreign, surreal, like the world is made up of broken fragments, melted together by her mind in an attempt to feign some semblance of reality. She blinks, once, twice, hoping to clear away the fog like sleep from her eyes, but she seems to be sealed into this state of artificiality. A thick film of darkness spreads over her lens and everything feels so far away. Out of reach. With distant horror, she wonders if this is what the rest of her life will be: Existing, but just barely.

Fin's hand on her back is the only thing that guides her forward, steering her as her body has shifted into neutral. They are in the squad room now. She's cold. She's tired. And, even through the numbness, she's afraid. That is all she registers, on repeat, like a mantra. Cold. Tired. Afraid… Sore. She tries not to think about that. She wants to go home. But now they are standing in Cragen's office, and she's not sure when they got there because she doesn't remember entering through the door, doesn't remember passing her desk or seeing Elliot or Munch or anyone outside. But she's here. Cold. Tired. Afraid. And her captain is giving her a look that makes her veins ice over - a look akin to pity, and it makes her sick. He's never looked at her that way before. Her heart beats a little faster at the sight because it's like he knows. But he can't know, because Fin promised.

He promised.

"I'll need both of your written statements on my desk by the end of tomorrow," the captain's voice breaks through to her, "For tonight, just go h-"

"I'll do it now," her voice surprises all three of them, and they turn to her. She winces. It hurts to speak.

Cragen gives her a look like he wants to object, but all it takes is one lingering glance at her bloodshot eyes, at the slowly-forming tendril of yellow on her jaw before he's reaching in his desk, handing her the papers. She doesn't know if she's more relieved or disturbed that he's letting her win so easily.

It takes her less than thirty minutes to do what should be hours of paperwork, mostly because she omits every detail she can. Admit what you can't deny, deny what you can't admit. And this is something she could never admit. To anyone. She waters it down, laying out a frame that would, hopefully, be enough to explain away the bruises and take him out of that place for good. "Excessive force" is the colorless phrase she uses in lieu of the razor sharp image of his hips grinding into hers, her face smashed against concrete. "Forceful touching" as opposed to the feeling of his fingers in her hair. She tries to convince herself that Fin hadn't seen. She has to believe that the trajectory of his body and hers had blocked his view of the worst moment of her life. It is a stretch, but she lies to herself anyway because the alternative is overwhelming to think about, even in this half-existence she seems to be living.

She jumps out of her skin when Fin approaches from behind, touching his palm to her shoulder.

"Sorry," he mutters.

She doesn't speak.

"You need a lift home?"

"No," she whispers. She can't look him in the eye. He hovers for a few seconds before she realizes he is reading over her shoulder. A blush rises to her cheeks as she moves her hand to cover her writing.

"So that's the story?" He asks gently. At this, she finally turns to him, finding no accusation in his eyes. Only allegiance. Loyalty. She can't find her words, so she prays her eyes will do her bidding. They must, because he nods, no questions asked.

"Got it," he squeezes her shoulder, eyes flashing with something like guilt as he steps away, "Night, Liv. Get some sleep."

For the second time today, she thanks her lucky stars for Fin Tutuola.

When she walks the paperwork back into Cragen's office, she keeps her eyes flat, void of the emotions she feels stirring behind them.

"Should I assume there's no point in asking if you want to take some time off?" He watches her, looking for answers her lips would never speak.

"No need," she replies simply, her best attempt at firmness. He nods. He waits a beat.

"Lowell Harris is going to be here tomorrow," he warns, his voice cautious, "He's in holding overnight, but we're putting him in the box first thing in the morning."

"I'll do it."

"Liv," he starts to argue, letting his eyes fall shut like he knew this was coming.

"I need to do it" she all but begs, and the desperation in her voice scares him. He's never heard Olivia Benson beg for anything. He doesn't like the sound. "I need to be the one."

He stares her down, every fiber of his being screaming at him, warning against the idea. The same voice of warning that told him not to let her step foot into that prison in the first place. But as he watches the defiance in her eyes flicker in and out between flashes of exhaustion, his resolve gives way to softness. She needs this, indeed. He nods once, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Go home. Get some rest," he tells her, "I'll see you here first thing tomorrow."

She attempts a grateful smile, but it falls just short, like the unsatisfactory growl of a car engine that won't turn over. Distantly, she feels a spark of panic. For the first time in a long time, possibly ever, her Emmy award winning performance of being okay feels unmanageable. Like she might physically curl up and die before she has to flash a halfway convincing smile. Shake a hand. Give a hug. But she will figure it out. She has to. She will do it no matter what because she's Olivia Benson and that's how she deals with things. Suppress. Move along. Start the engine or get out and push.

Before she leaves the office, Cragen stops her.

"Hey..."

When she turns back to him, she only meets his eyes for a moment. She knows what's coming and she dreads it.

"If you want to talk about what happened…"

"It's all in the paperwork," she stops him immediately.

But it's not. Not even close. She breaks away coldly, bidding him goodnight with a curt nod. The walls are closing in and she has to get out of there fast - before her skin fades transparent and he can see the lies that course through the veins beneath. Pushing out of his office and through the empty squad room, she keeps her mind on the sole focus of getting home, to the solitude and isolation she so desperately craves to fall apart, and the shower that has been calling her name for five hours. The distance between here and her front door feels far too wide and full of darkness and strangers on the street that suddenly seem more terrifying than ever before, but she swears nothing can get in her way.

That is, until the elevator doors slide open to reveal a red-faced and panting Elliot Stabler.

"Liv," he breathes, "I'm glad I caught you before you left."

She freezes. She isn't prepared to face him. Not now, not when the sting of her trauma is still so fresh. She doesn't know if she can hide it.

"What are you still doing here?" Her voice breaks off, making her cringe. So much for keeping up a solid performance.

"I've been waiting here all afternoon," he says, stepping out of the elevator, "I just stepped out to grab a bite to eat. But I wanted to make sure you got back okay after hearing about the outbreak. I tried to get you out of there right away when I heard, but by then the prison was already locked down..."

He stops, realizing he's rambling, and lets his eyes scan over her. If he notices the evidence of violence in the dim lighting, he gives no indication.

" Anyway - welcome back to the real world," he sighs, "I heard you caught Harris."

It takes a conscious effort not to gag at the name.

"You talked to Fin?" she searches his eyes, scoping for answers. Feeling him out. How much does he know? He must catch onto her hidden panic - of course he does - because he squints at her, eyeing her curiously.

"I passed him on the way in. He didn't say much," he paused, "Why? Should he have?"

She swallows hard, burning under his gaze.

"No," Olivia sends up a silent prayer, pleading to him with her eyes to believe her lie and let it go. For a few weighted breaths, she thinks he might. But of course her luck doesn't carry that far, and her heart jumps when his gaze drops to her jaw. His eyes widen.

"Woah, did Harris do this to you?"

She recoils when he takes a step closer, raising a hand to her only noticeable bruise. If only he could see the ones hiding behind her clothes. Her heartbeat slams against her ribcage as they stare each other down under the weight of his question. She tries to form words, formulate a lie, or a less brutal truth, but she can't speak as her mind replays the explosion of pain that had overtaken her when Harris's hand collided with her cheek, knocking her into the metal door that would haunt her nightmares for years to come.

"Liv-"

"Yes. He did."

She expects rage. Instant and explosive. She expects him to resurrect the Elliot Stabler he reserves for drastic measures, where his mouth floods with questions, voice raises, and fists are thrown at some unsuspecting drywall. When she senses movement at his sides, she watches his fingers curl until they drain white and she's sure this is it. She braces herself. His eyes flash with something strong, something fleeting but very much there. But he is quiet. Instead, he neutralizes his expression and cracks a rueful smile.

"I'd hate to see what he looks like."

The relief that floods her veins is immediate. She feels like she needs to fake some sort of laugh here, or retort with a snappy comeback that shows just how okay she is. Her brain gives her all the right cues, but it's all she can do to paint a crooked half smile onto her face.

"You want to grab a bite to eat? I can swing you by your place after," he offers, "I can't wait to hear how you took this son of a bitch down."

As he brushes past the intensity of the conversation, it becomes abundantly clear to her: he has no idea.

Good.

"So, whadya say?"

"Huh?" She doesn't realize she has spaced out until he dips his head into her line of sight, eyebrow cocked.

"You up for a burger or something?"

"Oh," she clears her throat, crossing her arms over her chest, "Um. I'm actually pretty tired. I think I'm just going to head home for the night."

"Okay," he shrugs, "Well, I can still drive you home-"

"I'll be okay, El. Goodnight."

She makes the first move to leave, but he reaches for her wrist as she brushes past him, and it takes every ounce of will she has not to jump out of her skin. Out of his sight, she shuts her eyes tight, and the second she turns back to him she regrets it, because there it is. Spelled out clear as day across his face.

Skepticism.

"Olivia," he lowers his voice even though there is no one around to hear, "Is everything okay?"

Unable to tolerate the feeling of restraint any longer, she pulls her wrist from his grasp, probably a little too forcefully. He lets his hand drop to his side as her eyes grow hard and detached, glazing over. She swallows hard, feeling the tears claw their way to the surface. She has to get out of there. Now. Because she's cold. She's tired. She's afraid. And her eyes are burning because in the morning, she will stand face to face with Lowell Harris. She will put on her mask and walk into work, level his gaze and not turn away. She will prove to her squad, herself, and that sad excuse for a human being that she is unafraid. Unbroken.

She will push through it.

She will survive.

But that is tomorrow. And this is tonight.

"I said goodnight, Elliot," she turns away.

And for the first time in her life, she cannot bring herself to pretend.